


a stranger to my eyes

by jaih0



Series: Alpine: the LGBTQ ally that we all need [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpine is the real MVP, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Sharon Carter (Marvel), Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexual Sam Wilson, Bucky also hates him, Coming Out, Frenemies Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson, Hurt, I don't hate Steve but it might look like it, It's very slow, M/M, Old Steve Rogers, Post Endgame Steve Rogers, Post-Endgame, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, bisexual sharon carter, bucky loves steve, frenemies to lovers in the future, i'm already apologizing for how slow it will be, sad boy hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 50,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27586810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaih0/pseuds/jaih0
Summary: He should have expected it, but somehow, he still let himself feel a certain amount of shock upon seeing the door of his apartment ajar. The new supplies were placed on the floor with a gentleness that could have only been due to the fact that Alpine was in one of those supplies. Technically, there was no point in being stealthy now, given the grace and finesse he had used to trample up the stairs with the fruits of his shopping spree. Still, old habits die hard, and people who sneak into apartments die harder.In which Sam saves Bucky, Bucky saves Sam, and they just can't seem to figure out what it means.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Series: Alpine: the LGBTQ ally that we all need [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016589
Comments: 86
Kudos: 136





	1. i'm writing this letter to let you know (i'm really leaving)

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title is from SZA's "Supermodel"  
> The main title is from Fugee's "Killing Me Softly With His Song"

It wasn't the rain that woke him up. 

Not to diminish the leak at the very corner of the room, but the small _tick-tick-tick_ of droplets into the small broken bucket was the least of his problems. On other days, he could say that he had been awake all night, unable to fall asleep, so there was nothing that would have _had_ to wake him up. Thankfully (or not, depending on his state of paranoia), the Wakandan-prescribed medication on his secondhand bedside table had given him access to less restless nights. It had transformed the sound of rain into a melody of peace and quiet.  
So it wasn't the rain that made him grip the handle of the knife underneath his pillow. It definitely wasn't the rain that convinced him to slink out of bed, crouching close to the floor to slide a gun from underneath the bed. 

Outside the window, all any normal person would have heard was the constant downpour. Normal people hadn't frequently been subjected to the horror of being injected with discount supersoldier serum derived from WWII era lab papers. Normal people did not have to listen to the occasional rat in the plumbing, a yard or so behind cheap insulation, and they definitely did not have to hear the fake moans of someone a few doors down and a floor up, who was not having as much fun as their partner thought, even with the enthusiastic squeaks of a yard sale bed frame chiming in. 

Bucky Barnes was not up to listen to the sounds of bad sex. Also, the rats were no longer in his plumbing. 

He was up because of the loud clatter outside the window that looked out onto the breath-taking view of the alleyway below, complete with a dumpster and a few scattered metal trash cans. For a second, Bucky almost pitied whoever was here to kill him; he would not want to be caught dead in the stench that the rain pulls out of the mostly-eaten cheap diner food and all of the other shit rotting in that trash pile. Sadly, because people could not seem to give the sergeant a break, he would have to go down there, out in the storm and out in the smell of decay. His water bill was crying just thinking about the shower he would have to have. 

He should walk out the door. It was not so that he would have the ability to walk out of this fight, as he had learned a long time ago that he will never be able to escape the fight. His reasoning for walking out the door would be so that he could grab his umbrella on the way out, and clamber down the creaky stairs like any other resident, and maybe succeed at trapping his potential assassin by blocking off the entrance to the alley. However, this would not work for him. It would not work for him because he was currently opening the window slowly. He may have originally wanted to escape his old life, but Bucky was not stupid. He took the time every day to grease the sides of the window, so that when an emergency arose, the window would give without the sound that often accompanied any task in an old apartment. 

The window, like most of the other apartment windows, was missing the netted screen, so the wind immediately took the opportunity to shoo the rain into the apartment and, subsequently, Bucky. His hair was plastered to face, the strands caressing his neck and his cheeks. The thick shirt which had been advertised for “keeping the cold out” was definitely not living up to its standards. He listened again, even as the rain played hide and seek in his ears. 

There. The most miniscule noise echoing as strongly as thunder in Bucky’s ears was coming from behind or on top of the dumpster. He slipped the knife into his pocket (which would not be a good idea if he hadn't found himself doing it so often in the middle of the night) and repositioned his gun in his left hand. The sleek surface of the handle was familiar against the vibranium of his hand, curving into his palm like an old friend.

How sad that this gun was the only old friend who hadn’t left him. 

Carefully, he braced both hands on the windowsill, leaning more on his right side. A few seconds later, and the adrenaline got to him; he jumped out of the window. Gun first then legs then flesh arm, he landed on the tips of his toes, bouncing immediately to dilute the force of the fall. His desire to be alone and stay unrecognized had encouraged him to make somewhat safer choices when it came to his fighting style. Hydra was no longer there to fix him up in the most painful way possible. It was more reckless than ever to crash down on top of cars or buildings or concrete without a care. He could not risk going to a hospital. 

He crouched low to the ground. Whatever piss-poor assassin was after him must be more cowardly than Bucky had originally thought. At least most of the threats he had faced had come at him when they were cornered. Even as his senses screamed at him, he crept forward, low to the ground. His boots barely made a sound on the asphalt compared to the torrent of water unleashed from the sky. _When did I even put on boots?_ Sometimes he wondered whether his memory had ever come back; his guess was that he fell asleep in them again.

There it was again. The dumpster rattled again. He held the gun slightly tighter, starting to lift his arm up. It rattled again, and he stepped closer. A flash of white darted in front of him, and he was about to shoot before his brain caught up to his eyes. 

It wasn't a rat. Rats, at least the ones here, were not bright white. Not that the lump in front of him looked particularly bright; its fur was matted and the rain had not spared its coat. It was tiny, too, and for a second Bucky thought it could be a mouse. The poor thing was pressed against the wall, shivering as if that would repel the rain. Bucky decided that the creature in front of him did not warrant his gun being out, and so he pocketed that as well, walking forward slowly. 

The thing looked like it wanted to disappear. Bucky took in its flatten ears, its stumpy whiskers, and its glowing eyes.

“I haven't seen any other cats around here.” His voice was rough with disuse. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had talked to someone properly, but then again, he obviously couldn't remember shit. “Where'd you come from?” 

It obviously wasn't going to say anything back. It seemed like it was struggling to stay upright. He felt himself moving towards the pitiful kitten, without having made a solid decision. The cat was so tired that Bucky was able to approach it. It only seemed to cling onto its last ditch effort at independence as Bucky cupped his hands around it. The cat's brain must have been muddled by the rain, or at least that was Bucky’s reluctantly fond thought process as it gnawed on his metal fingers. 

Bucky looked up at the window above him, and down at the cat he was cradling in his hands, and up again at the window, clearer now as the rain finally started to let up. The sky was even lightening, giving way to daybreak in an hour. Bucky held the kitten closer to him as he placed his flesh arm against the wet brick, glancing up yet again. Of course, the door was always an option, but then he would have to break into his apartment for the third time this month. Bucky reminded himself that he was training to be more inconspicuous, which was proving to be one of the hardest parts of his recovery. 

So he looked up at the window, and prepared himself to climb up with his new friend in tow. 

\- - - - -

Being inconspicuous was hard when you had no experience owning a cat before, but there were always going to be necessary sacrifices. At least, that was what Bucky told himself as he smiled dully at the woman in the pet food aisle with him as she cooed over the cat in his pocket. The cat did not seem like a very social being, evident in the way that she pressed up closer to Bucky's chest. _We're going to get along great._ The woman was finally distracted by a commotion on the other side of the store, and Bucky took the opportunity of the chorus of dog barks to slip past her, grabbing a random bag of cat food (everything looked the same to him, anyway). 

Two men were conversing a few feet from the end of the aisle as their dogs glared at each other suspiciously. Bucky did not want to subject his cat to the possible rage of the other pet species, so he promptly walked into the other aisle and was immediately confronted by rows upon rows of cat carriers. Fur tickled his unshaven chin, forcing him to confront the offender only to be met by piercing eyes staring back at him. She was not going to stay small forever, and Bucky would probably have to carry her places at some point. The neat, minimalist black carrier in the middle of the others would do nicely. Bucky grabbed that too.

When Bucky was finally able to find his way to the register while avoiding everybody he could, he was boasting a cart that hosted two food bowls, a small cat bed, a simple collar, a couple of colorful toys, the black carrier, and the bag of food he had come here for. The supplies rolled gently down the conveyor belt he had placed them on as a bored employee finished bagging for the person in front of him. Bucky nodded politely to the worker, before finding anywhere else to look. Bucky stroked his cat’s forehead aimlessly, getting so lost in nothing that he almost didn't hear the cashier telling him to pay. 

The gloves that he slid over his hands every morning before going out made handling any money a troublesome affair. He filed through them as quickly as he could with his padded hands, as if that would make more money appear in his grasp. His eyes closed briefly before he gave in; the money slid back into the wallet, and was replaced quickly in his hand by a sleek, unused credit card.

It was bound to happen somehow, sometime. And Bucky was tired. 

He inserted it where it told him to. He took it out when he needed to. The cashier typed some things in. Bucky caught the kid’s eyes on him before she quickly looked away.

“So,” she said unprompted. Bucky tensed up immediately. “What's the little dude's name?” 

Bucky had not prepared for social interaction today. He opened his mouth, trying to stall, but his tongue felt dry. The employee moved over to the other side of the counter, yanking a plastic bag from its metal holder, and he watched the bag of food disappear, engulfed by the plastic. He scanned over it, panicked. The package had said “all natural” and that sounded great, and it definitely _wasn't_ a marketing strategy. That sounded like something that definitely wasn’t a scam. All Natural: Made from Alpine Rabbits.

“Alpine,” Bucky blurted out, and the cat mewed, as if she was in on Bucky’s lie. The employee nodded stiffly as she gathered all of his bags together, shoving them to the end of the counter. He quickly grabbed them all, struggling less with the weight and more with the idea of accidentally crushing “Alpine.” Bucky made a mental note to stick Alpine into the carrier when they were outside the store, dignity be damned. 

Alpine made an indignant noise, and Bucky wondered again if this cat knew something he didn't. 

\- - - - -

He should have expected it, but somehow, he still let himself feel a certain amount of shock upon seeing the door of his apartment ajar. The new supplies were placed on the floor with a gentleness that could have only been due to the fact that Alpine was in one of those supplies. Technically, there was no point in being stealthy now, given the grace and finesse he had used to trample up the stairs with the fruits of his shopping spree. Still, old habits die hard, and people who sneak into apartments die harder.

So when Bucky slipped through the door, knife in hand, and was met with an all too familiar, “Do not cut my dick off or I swear to God,” he let himself feel shock again. 

“Wilson,” he muttered gruffly to the man lounging on the lone armchair, “Please don't.” 

“Good thing you didn't waste your time asking how I found you,” Sam replied back, but there wasn’t a lot of snark in his tone. In fact, Bucky heard something like warmth, and he hated it with a passion.

“I assumed someone else would have been trying to track my card.” Bucky shrugged, before scooting back out the door. Sam started to get up, an argument as to why Bucky can't run away from everything on his tongue, before closing his mouth. There was no true reason as to why he stopped what he was going to say, but Bucky wanted to believe it was because of the sheer amount of pet _stuff_ that he promptly dumped on the floor. He saved the best for last, placing Alpine and the carrier on the table, opening the latch. Alpine crept out warily, eyeing Sam but still arching up to meet Bucky's soft strokes across the cat's back. 

“As you can see, I am not alone, so I will be denying the request that I know is coming up,” Bucky said, picking up the cat in his hands and cradling her. It should have been odd how quickly he sought the warmth of Alpine’s fur, but given the intense loneliness he had been feeling the past few months, it wasn't all that surprising. 

“You used your credit card.” Bucky glared up at Sam, who had crossed his arms. Bucky thought he looked somewhat like a mother, scolding Bucky for staying out late. 

“Yes, I told you I did.” The atmosphere around them was tense. Alpine was not moving in his grasp, and Bucky had to focus solely on his hands to stop him from clamping down on the kitten accidentally.

“Cut the bullshit,” Sam said, before adding a quick “please” at the end. Alpine's legs dangled momentarily, swimming in the air, as she was placed down on the table. 

“I don't know what you want me to say,” Bucky whispered pointedly, “I haven't lied to you in any point of this conversation, so if _you_ could cut the bullshit and get to your point, that would be very much appreciated.” 

“I don't care that you thought someone else would see your credit card use or whatever.” Sam held his finger up as Bucky opened his mouth to interrupt. “You _knew_ someone would see. So either you have a death wish and a hero complex wrapped into one, or you wanted someone to help you.” 

Bucky didn't speak. His mouth was cemented shut by some greater power. That greater power was quite possibly trying to look out for him, given that Bucky had nothing to add to the conversation that made any plausible sense. He tried to focus on whatever his train of thought was. _I was trying to be mad at Sam… I want help- no wait, I_ don't _want help, I'm trying to not get help._ He didn't even realize Sam was still talking. 

"James, _please._ ” That got his attention. “Steve wants me to look after you.” There was more for Sam to say, but he stopped when met with an unforgiving gaze. Ice filled Bucky’s brain, puncturing his tired thoughts and replacing them with anger.

“Don't.” His voice wasn't a hiss, but it was close to one. “Don't call me James.” 

“I won't,” Sam murmured quietly. On any other day, it would have been impossible to stay angry at Sam. Irritated, always, but never angry. Apparently, this was not any other day. Bucky’s tiredness was the biggest contributor to his anger's stamina, it seemed.

Bucky was seething. Not necessarily at Sam, he realized, but Sam was the one who was here, in front of him. “ _Steve_ is not my babysitter. He may look that age now, but that doesn't mean he knows shit.” 

“I know.” 

“Why should I care about whatever the hell Steve wants anyway?” Bucky said, before sitting back on one of his shitty wooden chairs surrounding the equally shitty wooden table. The wood screeched under his weight, and Alpine looked on, somewhat concerned. “He got what he wanted,” he muttered under his breath, an afterthought that should have stayed private. 

“Don't take your anger with Steve out on me.” Of course, Sam was right. Sam had never been wrong. The only mistake Sam had made was getting close to Steve. He should have known that Steve never stays in one place for too long. He should have known that Steve would have left him at some point. 

“I'm not going to try to reason with you about Steve or anything, because that's a lot to unpack.” See? Sam’s never wrong. “But you were kind of right when you said that someone else probably has your credit card info.” Bucky’s eyes darted up to meet Sam’s. 

“Who.” Not really a question, not the way that Bucky said it. 

“Will you hate me if I tell you that I don't know? It's mostly a hunch.” 

Bucky would have never gone on a hunch before. But then again, does he even know himself? He was willing to follow one man into the jaws of death over and over again, so what makes following a hunch any different? Eyes closed momentarily, Bucky allowed himself to take a deep breath, choosing to ignore the slight quiver that was induced at the peak of his inhale. He was _tired_ of the rats and the neighbors and the rain and being alone. 

“Where are you going?” _Where are we going?_ Sam knew, though. Bucky hated that he knew things as simple as that. 

“Upstate. Still New York.” _Somewhat isolated. Expensive as hell though._ Bucky wondered whether it would be out of pocket to ask Sam how much they were paying him as an Avenger- as the new _Captain America._ There were more important things to ask though, and Bucky, being the naturally inquisitive person he was, had to ask them. 

“Who else?” 

“My sister drops by to make sure I’ve eaten something.” Bucky felt a sharp pain in his ribs, right where his heart lays caged. He was so lonely. 

“No Avengers?”

“This is my place, but I won't tell you that it's not a possibility.” Sam is more honest than a lot of the people Bucky deals with. Bucky mostly deals with hitman and tyrants so that might not have been the greatest compliment. 

“Why do you want me there?” 

“I'm Captain America now. If you can't believe that I would genuinely want to make sure you're not dead in a ditch somewhere-” Bucky didn't flinch, and that was a miracle within itself. “-then just think about that one quote ‘bout keeping your friends close, enemies closer.” At Bucky’s blank stare, Sam continued with, “so I'm trying to keep you from falling back into the hands of the wrong people.”

Bucky stared at his boots, hands clasped over his knees. Alpine jumped down to the floor, winding himself around Bucky’s legs, his white fur frazzled.

“Are cats allowed?” 

Sam huffed a laugh, caught up in watching the cat dance around Bucky’s feet. “Yeah, the house is kind of empty. I'm sure we could use the company.” Alpine purred, rubbing her chin against the rough pant leg of Bucky’s worn denim jeans. Reaching down with his metal fingers, he gently pet behind Alpine’s ears. He refused to meet Sam’s eyes, but he brought himself to speak. 

“I'll come with you.” 


	2. why can't you wait ('til i fall out of loving)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house was something out of the wet dream of an average suburban family dreaming of picket fences, two kids, and a golden retriever. It was a cream-yellow color highlighted by small white pillars that framed the pristine double doors. The roof shone against the sunlight, not unlike slate under a clear river. The fresh grass sunk under Bucky's sodden boots, and the shadows of the trees danced across the massive yard space. The young scrappy soldier of the past would have dreamt of raising a family in an area as nice as this.  
> Bucky hated it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from The Weeknd's "Call Out My Name"

It wasn't that Bucky didn't trust Sam. 

That definitely was somewhat true on its own. Bucky struggled to trust any person, so it wasn't because of any wrongdoing on Sam's part. It was not hard to see why other people trusted Sam immediately, though. Hadn't Steve mentioned something about meeting Sam on a run once and then recruiting him for help right after? Not that Steve was the good judge of character. Or a good decision maker. Or a good anything. 

It was just that Bucky considered himself a connoisseur of safehouses, given the significant portion of his life that was spent bouncing in between them. At the height of the Romanian Revolution, his home had been a bunker six feet down in Bucharest, the three-foot thick metal walls making for an appropriately chilly transition for his trip back to Russia. It did hinder the reception of the television, but maybe that was a blessing at the time; the Winter Soldier had killed enough people already, so there was no need to watch a firing squad gun down Ceaușescu. 

Briefly, he had had a fling with an Austrian factory's attic which was not the peak of his career. The dust that built up in the shifty wooden panels of the ceiling had been almost enough to break through his immune system. The safehouse had less emphasis on the safe part, though, and one sneeze would have caused a deluge of bullets through the floor, something that Bucky was not a fan of. 

And then there had even been that Italian hideout, but that was beyond the point. Bucky knew his safehouses. The house that Sam had dragged him to? It was not it. 

The house was something out of the wet dream of an average suburban family dreaming of picket fences, two kids, and a golden retriever. It was a cream-yellow color highlighted by small white pillars that framed the pristine double doors. The roof shone against the sunlight, not unlike slate under a clear river. The fresh grass sunk under Bucky's sodden boots, and the shadows of the trees danced across the massive yard space. The young scrappy soldier of the past would have dreamt of raising a family in an area as nice as this.

Bucky hated it. 

The trees made for the type of coverage that Bucky would have used many times to infiltrate a house like this. The light color of the house stuck out like a sore thumb in the dark greens and browns of the woods. Even from where he was standing, it was easy to see right through the wide windows that populated every possible surface. An ache pulsed in his chest. As a sergeant in the camps out during winter, he kept himself warm dreaming of leaning against a window with a fire roaring in the fireplace, a book leaning against his knees. He shooed that thought away, though not immediately; Bucky let the dream linger for more time than he should have allowed. The Winter Soldier had no room for want.

The door of the car slamming shut stole Bucky from his thoughts. The honk of the car locking was followed by the click of it unlocking again. 

"Almost forgot. You might want to get your unhappy camper out the back seat." Bucky was already opening the back door, leaning down to grab the carrier. A hiss echoed from inside of it.

"Sorry pal," Bucky murmured softly, and he swore he heard Alpine sigh as the carrier rocked slightly by the loose handle. The leaves rustled faintly above, the chorus of the breeze seeming like a welcoming parade of hope and possible devastation. How long Sam must have looked for this place, and how disappointed he would be to hear Bucky's thoughts. Bucky was nothing if not honest, though.

"This isn't good." The words were pulled out of Bucky's mouth before he realized it. Sam, halfway up the path to the house, didn't even bother to turn around. If the other man was surprised, he did not show it. 

"Would you like to elaborate on that or is that just something I'm going to have to figure out?" Screw Sam and his rational responses to irrational statements. 

"It's not a safehouse." His answer was short, maybe unreasonable, but Sam should have seen this coming anyway, so Bucky felt no need to explain right away. The windows gaped at him, as if shocked that he would accuse them of betraying him. Sam leaned down to retrieve a phone out of his sack of random things, before tapping at the screen repeatedly. The screen was then shoved into Bucky’s face before falling into Bucky’s hands. The application was composed of many different screens playing footage of what seemed to be different rooms.

“There are multiple cameras in every room. I get a notification if something moves. You're going to be fine,” Sam replied, slipping the phone out of Bucky’s hand and back into the back. Bucky disagreed strongly with Sam’s latter statement, but he wasn't going to be able to check the house from outside of it. Striding up the path and overtaking Sam, Bucky let his eyes wander up the trees, noting the places where the branches split and gave way to perfect sniper perches. Scattered across the front yard, he mentally marked the shallow dips and hills in the grass, where one could lay belly down virtually unnoticed. 

The single step up to the door was wood, and Bucky was somewhat comforted to realize that it wasn't hollow. Good. Nothing can be set off underneath it. His skin crawled as he felt something brush past him, but it was only Sam, sliding past him to open the door. The click of the lock echoed in Bucky's ears, as the door swept up to reveal the inside of the house. 

If it was even possible, the inside of the house seemed much more domestic than the outside. From the front door, he could see into the living room, which was just behind the staircase pressed against the wall. The light blue couch was complemented by bright yellow pillows and a white armchair standing just behind the glass coffee table. As Bucky stepped past the two doors on the inside of the house to the left and right (which Sam told him led into the mudroom and the bathroom respectively), he was able to see clearly into another room to the right, hosting an array of leather couches and yet another glass table. The blinding reddish light beyond the family room drew his attention, and Bucky bypassed the kitchen and dining room, stopping only to set Alpine down gently on the floor, to the left of the house in favor of the entrancing sight. 

A sunroom. Mostly windows for walls and a clear roof looking out above. A lone hawk flew far above, no doubt searching for prey among the deep sheltered woods with its sharpshooter eyes. How lonely it must be to be seen as nothing more than a stone-cold killer, destined to circle far away from others, isolated forever. The bird's wings were illuminated by the dying sun, the sky scattered with pinks and oranges as the sun started to dip below the horizon. Bucky’s love of the sky had not dimmed over his years; rather, his appreciation lingered, but his concern soon eclipsed the feeling. 

“What's the glass made out of?” Two taps on the glass accentuated Bucky's words as he felt the reverberation ring against his metal knuckles. 

“Polycarbonate layers. As bulletproof as it can be, but I'm sure you can tell.” It was difficult to tell, but it definitely felt thicker than regular glass. Forcing himself to pivot his body away from the sun, Bucky mentally cursed himself for his clouded state of mind. He was just tired, as that was the only explanation for his dragging feet, his aching head, and it would all be solved in a night's sleep. It always worked for him. 

The stairs beckoned to him, promising the comfort of a solid mattress equipped with cotton blankets, and windows with not-so-threadbare curtains that stood a chance at blocking the blue light attempting to peek in every morning. These stairs were solid as well, dark oak slabs placed on top of white plaster. They did not give way underneath Bucky’s boots, their silence speaking to their stability. A plaintive cry broke his focus long enough for him to call back to Sam. “Please take Alpine out, if you can.” 

The suspicious glance that Sam threw Alpine’s way was almost enough to make Bucky laugh. Almost. 

The staircase opened up to a narrow hallway, which led to four different doors. Two of the doors were squished close together: the guest bathroom and bedroom. The one parallel to the main hallway was the office, presumably. At the far end of the hallway lay the master bedroom. Bucky's fingers dragged across the plain, unblemished wall in front of him. He was only somewhat aware of Sam trailing behind him. 

"You should get some sleep." Robotically, Bucky found himself moving towards the guest bedroom. He did not reply to Sam, not even when he heard the soft "Goodnight" from behind him. The blankets were cotton. The curtains were thick enough to shield from light. 

A few hours later, Bucky crept out of his room, a fist curled around the comforter as he snuck down the stairs to curl up on the couch facing the sunroom instead.

\- - - - -

Waking up with a mouthful of white fluff was not how Bucky expected his day to start, but Alpine seemed to have no objections to the current circumstances, so at least somebody was happy. Bucky gently rearranged himself, but it was all for nothing, as the white cat was already awake and taking her cue to leave. The air was sweet-smelling as it pranced in circles around Bucky's head. Running a hand through his disheveled hair, he stepped ungracefully over the discarded blanket on the ground, blindly following his nose (and Alpine) to the kitchen. 

_Pancakes._ Whether or not Bucky was drooling was his business only. It wasn't hard to convince himself that he was dreaming, but Sam's voice broke through that illusion.

"I almost had a heart attack this morning when I checked your room." It seemed as if the rest of his morning was about to be as delightful as the start. Sam slid a stack of pancakes towards Bucky, who grasped the plate tightly with downset eyes and a quick "thank you." They were plain, drizzled sparingly with maple syrup, but it had to be one of the most beautiful things Bucky had ever seen. Through his chewing, he managed to speak. 

"I thought you had cameras everywhere that detected movement," he mumbled, wiping at the glob of maple syrup threatening to slip down his chin. 

"First of all, please don't talk with your mouth full. I didn't know I was raising a child." Bucky shrugged. He was perfectly content with staying quiet. "Also, I'm a dumbass and I didn't check my phone. My home in DC doesn't have this much surveillance, surprisingly." 

There was silence for a bit, marred only by the sound of chewing from both Bucky and Alpine. Apparently Sam had laid out a bowl of food for the feline, which was touching, to say the least. Bucky's plate was wiped clean in a few minutes, the scraped maple syrup decorating the surface like dead vines. He carefully gripped the plate in his flesh hand, slowly making his way around the granite island to the sink. Soap lathered in his right hand more than his left as he attempted to wash the plate. The first few times he had tried at the domestic task, back at his apartment, he had ended up dusting broken glass off the floor, and started investing in paper plates. 

Alpine had no such qualms and concern for dishware or anything placed on a counter for that matter, further proved when she jumped onto the granite top of the kitchen. In hindsight, Bucky should have seen that a cat playing with someone's phone at the edge of a counter was not something that would end well. Still, he watched as Alpine swatted the phone off the edge with a mixture of nonchalance and pure mischief only found in cats. 

Bucky dropped the plate in his hand, catching the phone minutes before it met its doom. There was a small _crack_ that sounded from the sink; if he had to guess, his gentleness with the dish had not paid off in the end. 

"Sorry, sorry," he muttered hurriedly to Sam, who waved away his apologies, reaching forward to grab the phone from Bucky. 

Bucky did not give the phone back. Sam's eyes followed Bucky's gaze to the lone notification on the lock screen.

"You have a voicemail." Bucky's words were forced out. Any person would have thought it was anger that formed the rasp around his words, but anger wasn't the right word for the tightness that squeezed his lungs and pressed his heart up against his ribcage. Sam didn't flinch, but he did seem as if he was regretting many things.

"You can play it out loud." Bucky hated more than anything how Sam’s voice did not stutter or halt or shake. 

“You don't want to know who sent it first?” 

“There's only one person on my contacts list who’s old-fashioned enough to still leave voicemails,” Sam replied, and maybe he would have appreciated the humor that the man brought into the conversation, but it wasn't the time. His metal thumb drifted over the bright letters of the notification that shone front and center on the screen. _Steve._ Bucky swiped. 

“Hey Sam. I hope you and your family are doing well.” His eyes closed on their own accord. Maybe if he focused hard enough, Bucky could disconnect the old, crackling voice in the phone from the young, beautiful man he had grown up with. “I just wanted to check in with you, because I'm assuming Bucky's back with you.” 

His eyes flung back open, and Sam met Bucky’s stare easily. He didn't know what was pounding harder: his heart or his temples? 

“I just wanted to make sure he was doing okay. If you could, would you be so kind as to let him know where I'm staying at currently?” Deep breaths. Bucky refused to lose his shit in front of Alpine. Alpine never signed up for any of this. 

“Just give him the address and stuff. James and Emma would love to meet him.” Confusion rolled around like marbles banging against the walls of his skull. The marbles accelerated upon seeing Sam’s stone cold facade break to make way for a wave of horror. “You know the kids grew up on stories ‘bout him.” 

It wasn't the words that stole Bucky’s breath, even though that would be wholly understandable. It was the way he spoke. Aging couldn't hide the lilting tone of fondness that made his sentences sound like someone humming a love song without knowing the lyrics. Bucky _ached_ for that tone to be directed towards him once again, perhaps accompanied with the soft and short lived caress of Steve's hand on his cheek or a tender and quick hug that left the former assassin struggling to find his footing. It was the tone that Steve Rogers was born with, that no serum could replicate so perfectly; the one that he had used as a little stick of a kid when he had forced Bucky to practice dancing with him because “it was for the ladies, Buck!” It was the tone that had destroyed the foundations of the Winter Soldier faster than the helicarrier had crumbled. 

“And of course they told diluted versions to the little ones, but I'm not exactly sure whether they got the general gist-” He turned the voicemail off. The heater's soft hum was a roar in Bucky's ears, as was the _drip drip drip_ of the still-draining water in the sink. 

“I did tell you that Steve wanted you here.” That was the least of Bucky’s worries, but he couldn't be mad at Sam. Sam didn't lie to him.

“I know.” A short reply, but there was nothing else to say. 

“How easily would you be able to tell someone that their best friend had kids if that someone didn't already know?” Sam’s rationality was itching at Bucky’s nerves in a way that he didn't even know was possible; he swore he could feel it in his metal arm. 

“He just wants to look after you.” It turned out that Bucky could be mad at Sam, at least for a split second. 

“If he wanted to look after me,” Bucky hissed, struggling to choke back the bile that was threatening to bubble over the side of his mouth. “He would have stayed.”

“I don't think that's the way you should look at it-”  
“He doesn't have a _single_ right to dictate how I live my life,” Bucky interrupted, his voice cold. His mouth tasted bitter. 

“He never did, Barnes.” _That's where you're wrong,_ Bucky thought viciously. Steve could have asked Bucky to climb over hot coals and Bucky would have taken it as a punishment for the sin of living in Steve’s vicinity. After all, what was the war but a test of how much he could take to protect Steve Rogers? 

_I died every day for him. He wouldn't live for me._ But that was Bucky’s choice. And that was Steve's choice. Sadness flooded his senses, overwhelming every part of his body. His dark conscience wondered whether the fragility that bombarded his bones was what Steve felt as he aged, but even that part of him was overtaken by complete and utter sorrow. It wasn't Steve’s fault that he had never loved him back. Bucky was a fool.

Even worse, Bucky was a fool trying to live in a story that didn't exist, where he was the victim, the damsel-in-distress, and Steve would appear one day as the knight in shining armor. What a blatant miscalculation on his part. He was more like the evil witch that kept the knight from his true love.

“I'm going to go buy milk.” _Good going Bucky. Very smooth._

“I can't let you leave like this.” It would be wrong to shove Sam out of the way, given that Sam is the host of the safehouse. Also, it's common courtesy. 

“I'm not leaving,” he replied, before realizing how utterly unconvincing he sounded. “I would take Alpine if I was.” 

Sam stepped to the side and Alpine’s tail flicked, as if annoyed that she had been used as a reason. _It's a compliment, girl,_ Bucky thought as he stroked Alpine’s fur once before rummaging through a drawer and grabbing the car keys. _I only wish I was the reason someone would stay._

\- - - - -

The grocery store was empty, a blessing that could have only been bestowed upon Bucky by some higher deity who sought to give him a break. Maybe it was a reward for not lying; he truly was only here for milk and, possibly, a packet of gum. Sue him. He was fascinated every time by the sheer number of flavor combinations mixed with the bright artificial coloring that should scare any customer. 

He didn't bother with stealth as he walked back to the car. The milk cartons rubbing against the plastic bags greatly hindered any attempt at silence. Bucky turned the corner of the supermarket. 

And then he pulled back around the corner, silently cursing himself for being unaware. Bucky focused on what he had seen in the split second after he turned the corner.

Three men, surrounding Bucky’s (Sam’s) rental car. Somewhat normal in dress, but not in stance; their posture had been too straight, too much like one of a dancer. They were too certain to be civilians. Bucky liked to think that his supersoldier hearing was something of a radio, how if he tuned in the correct way, he could make out the voices of people, even far away, even around the corner.

“...license plate is the one linked to the credit card.”

“It's not the same one that we were tracing.” They definitely couldn't have been tracing Bucky’s credit card, given that Sam made him throw it in the drains on their drive to the safehouse. Also, was that a British accent?

“It isn't, but remember, we have reason to suspect that it belongs to the Falcon.” Bucky’s blood went cold. Any other day, any other _person mentioned,_ and Bucky might have decided to note instead the mentoring voice that the speaker used to talk to the other two, and he would have pegged him as the leader much earlier. His only focus was Sam, and the amount of danger he was in. 

“Hush up.” So perhaps the previous man wasn't the leader. “One of them has to be nearby.” 

There was nothing that he needed to hear that was worth ruining the brief mirage of peace in Bucky’s life. And so he turned around. He would walk home, and then Sam would listen to him. Someone would help. Bucky was tired of fighting. Bucky was tired of killing.

Bucky was tired. 

When he reached the end of the parking lot, the small bit of foliage granted him enough cover to sneak a look back at the men. One was still lurking around the car, and another one was a little further back. Bucky pressed the panic button on the car key. The way that the closer one jumped and the way that the other ran to help was almost comical, but the little satisfaction was nothing compared to the steel needles that seemed to stab into his head and back and feet. 

He had to get back to Sam quickly. At least, as quickly as the four mile walk back to the house would allow him to. 

\- - - - -

Bucky came home to an empty house, save for Alpine, who was sitting just behind the door as if she had been expecting him. _Like a disappointed mother,_ Bucky mused. He had seen a lot of that when he was younger. Oddly enough, his first thought wasn't that Sam had been taken. Bucky presumed that if there had been any attempt on Sam’s life, he would have been able to see the spectacle from the other side of town. 

Placed on the kitchen’s island was a file that drew his attention. Placed on top of it was a note. _Who even wrote notes anymore?_ Bucky’s question was answered when Sam’s recognizable scrawl pointed out that Bucky did not have a phone that Sam could safely relay information to. And apparently, Sam had not been kidnapped. He was meeting some agent in New York City who was supposed to aid him in his transfer to Captain America. It was somewhat suspicious, but Bucky had to trust Sam’s judgment. 

The yellow paper that Sam had chosen peeled off the folder unwillingly, and Bucky immediately wished he had kept the note on top of it. It was too late, though. He knew the contents of the file. The end of the note had said some bullshit about how Sam "hadn't known how to tell” Bucky about other things and he wanted to make sure that “there were no more big secrets lurking” over them. He wished that Sam had let this one lurk, though. 

He wished he could feel happy about the file. Maybe a few days back, the title “REBECCA BARNES, 96 YEARS OLD” would have stirred up an old joy that he would have never thought he could have recovered. But now, he feared that the file had made a target of someone innocent. 

No. Not the file. It was _Bucky_ who had created the target. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially thought that I was going to make this a series of one shots, but that makes less sense to me given the way that the story is progressing, so I've decided to make them chapters! I was really tired when I wrote this, so please excuse my grammar mistakes. I hope you enjoy!


	3. they'll kick you then they beat you (then they'll tell you it's fair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sharon, be honest with me." Sharon’s eyes snapped up to meet Sam’s gaze. "I already know you're here to tell me something's wrong." The tapping stopped, and she sighed, slouching back into the chair. It was an odd look on the usual put-together woman.  
> "You're not going to be Captain America." And that was it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Michael Jackson's "Beat It"

New York City might never sleep, but Sam wished it would.

Of course, there was something about the flashing of the screens in Times Square that ran excitement through him like cars running red lights, but there was always something to be bothered by. The way that the humid air squatted on his skin, hugging onto the sweat that condensed as a result, was something that Sam had never been particularly fond of. 

The small old-fashioned bell rang as he opened the door to the café, sounding even more minuscule than it actually was. To Sharon Carter, though, the noise was just enough for her to look up and smile at Sam. As he dodged a waiter balancing a tray, a few cups, a couple of plates, some bowls, and general utensils, he couldn't help but notice that the smile didn't push her eyes to curve inward at the lower lash line like they usually did when she was truly happy. The casual way that she held her coffee cup, tilted towards her as if permanently ready to sip from, was somewhat reckless considering the spotless blue double-breasted suit she had donned for the day, the shine of the four buttons suggesting it was newly bought. 

Only three of the four legs scraped across the floor as Sam pulled the chair opposite from Sharon out, and he soon figured out why as the chair couldn't seem to decide which leg to lean its weight on. 

"How's it going at the new headquarters?" Sam started, still trying to find an adequate way to stop the chair from rocking. Sharon's smile was even weaker now. 

"It's okay." Sam's back was already tired from carrying the conversation, but he wasn't going to keep pushing. The two sat in uncomfortable silence for what seemed like an eternity to Sam. Sharon brought her coffee cup to her lips idly, as if still wondering whether it was worth it to drink. "How's James?" Her voice was so low and quiet that Sam almost didn't catch her addition to the conversation. 

"Barnes is fine." Based solely on the one threaded eyebrow that shot up, Sharon was not impressed with his answer. Sam conceded. "Not doing well. He kind of… hates Steve?" Sam pitched his voice lower at the name. Steve was a common name, but the old Captain America was supposed to be dead; they couldn't take any chances. Sharon made an odd sound, between a laugh and a sigh, setting her cup down. 

"Join the party." Sam couldn't say he was surprised at how she felt, but her blatant agreement with Barnes amazed him. 

"Right, but this is Barnes we're talking about." Another choked sound of laughter from Sharon sent chills down Sam’s spine, knowing that there was only so long they could both stall for before whatever apparently bad news she had to bring to him was spilled. 

"I'm still not surprised." Sharon's voice drifted over Sam's head; empty conversation was never his forte. His focus had instead drifted to Sharon’s cup, noting the slightly punched-in sides, as if she had been gripping it too hard. The plastic lid perched on top, once spotless white, was speckled with coffee, an unlikely occurrence for one as neat as Sharon. "But I doubt he hates him." More empty words. It shouldn't have mattered to Sharon whether or not Barnes hated Steve. But then again, Sharon didn't have to go out of her way to discuss the safehouse with Sam for Barnes, and she did that anyway. 

"Thank you for planning the safehouse with me, by the way. I never really told you how much I appreciate it," Sam said, rotating the one steel ring on his right ring finger under the table. 

"Don't worry about it." Was that the tip of her heel tapping against the floor? The repetitive sound did less to combat the silence than the sudden stop in the roar of the heater. 

"Sharon, be honest with me." Sharon’s eyes snapped up to meet Sam’s gaze. "I already know you're here to tell me something's wrong." The tapping stopped, and she sighed, slouching back into the chair. It was an odd look on the usual put-together woman. 

"You're not going to be Captain America." And that was it. 

Nothing was ever dropped into Sam's hands. For as long as he could remember, he'd always climb over hills and valleys just to reach what other people were able to get just by existing. And then he had been given the suit of Falcon, and suddenly he had the ability to fly over everyone else. And then Riley had happened, a reminder that everyone stops flying at some point. 

Even with what felt like a stone blocking his airway, Sam never backed down without knowing the scope of the fight. 

"I get that I never really worked at SHIELD, though given the circumstances, I feel like that should work in my favor." Flat, unlike most of the jokes he told, but expect; he didn't have it in him to dig humor out of the crevices in his bones. Sam wasn't wrong; there was less of a chance of him being HYDRA because of his lack of affiliation to SHIELD. 

"It's not that, Sam." Sharon looked at him expectantly, but Sam refused to let her off the hook. If he had to deal with what he was sure she was thinking, then she would have to say it out loud.

"A few higher ups have mentioned that it would be hard to..." Her breath caught, like the spark noise of a bug flying into electricity head on. Something must have clicked in her head, though, as her hands came up to her head in a fluid, interrupted motion, her fingers making air quotes in the air as she finished her sentence. "'Market someone like you.'" There it was. The expression on Sharon’s face explained any other context that Sam would have needed, but the truth was that he didn't. 

"Because I'm black." It wasn't a question. 

"Yes." A short reply, but what else was there for Sharon to say that Sam didn't already know? He leaned back in his chair, the legs tipping back again due to the lack of balance. Sam had bigger things to worry about now. 

"I probably should have seen this coming." His tongue darted out to ease the pain of his chapped lips, even for a small instant before the burn came back. Sam didn't want to look at Sharon, didn't want to see the look of pity and lack of understanding in her eyes. 

"I didn't." The softness of her tone scraped at his eardrums with more ferocity than a raised voice. 

"Well, you're not me." He didn't lose his temper often, but Sam had lasted this long into the conversation; he deserved to be cut some slack. 

"That's true." At this point, Sam really wished he had ordered a drink, either to stay awake or to offer some relief to his dry throat. Even whatever black coffee deal that Sharon had going on was looking appealing to him. He twisted his steel ring a few more times. 

"They got a replacement? Or is it just fuck Captain America?" Sharon, the good sport that she was, tilted her head back and laughed, drawing the attention of several onlookers who apparently had nothing better to do than sip their lukewarm drinks with melted whip cream and stare at others. 

"John Walker." From the light blue satchel sitting next her, Sharon revealed a sleek black tablet, sliding it onto the table with ease. Her short, filed nails barely made any sound against the smooth surface of the screen as she opened it. A few more taps, and she flipped the tablet to face Sam, showing the image of a man who definitely _looked_ like a John Walker. His face was infuriatingly chiseled, the strong bridge of his nose and the slight curve in his cheekbones complimenting his square jaw. Stubble was evenly scattered across the bottom half of his face, presenting an air of ruggedness and maturity that grated on Sam. Even more irritating, and possibly terrifying, was the fact that, if wearing the Cap helmet, he would look virtually indistinguishable from Steve just from the shape of his face. He was white, too, of course. 

He feigned a sense of nonchalance, gesturing airily to the screen below him. "Am I supposed to know who that is?" 

"I don't know who he is. I-" She cut herself, leaning in towards Sam. "I have a bad feeling." Scoffing, he leaned even further back into the chair.

"Yeah? Join the club. I just learned that I'm basically unemployed."

"About Walker." Sam bit back the urge to make another joke, the concern in Sharon's eyes a little too vulnerable for him to be comfortable. His eyes drifted down to the tablet as it buzzed, also catching her attention, but she pretended not to have seen it. 

"What do you want me to do about it?" It was an honest question. Sam wasn't trying to show any ill will over his replacement of Captain America, but he had no authority whatsoever. Sharon didn't have any ideas either, one of her shoulders coming up and done, as if she couldn't bother to create any sense of unity with the rest of her body. 

"I don't know." The tablet buzzed again, and this time, Sharon reached for it, pulling it towards her until it sat in her lap, leaning against the table top. Her eyebrows scrunched down, and Sam's first thought was that it was anger; but no, the wide nature of her eyes, constant even with the pressure of her frown, spoke to something like fear. "I gotta go soon."

"Really? Is something wrong?" Sharon shoved the tablet back into her bag, hitting her cup with the side of her palm as she turned back to Sam. His hand shot out on instinct to stabilize it before it fell. Sharon made no comment about it, if she had even noticed. 

"It's just..." On second thought, her nails weren't all properly filed down. The third and fourth finger of her right hand seemed to be slightly more sharp and uneven, but still down to the bed of the nail. As if she had been biting it. "I'm paranoid." Her voice was nothing more than whisper, odd for someone as loud spoken as her. 

"What happened?" If something had shaken Sharon, then it was definitely worth listening to. 

"Someone bugged my apartment a few days back. I didn't really know who to trust, so..." She fidgeted in her chair, as if the wood was the true source of her discomfort, and not her potential stalker or assassin or government-trained official. "No one knows I'm here right now. Apart from what they can figure out by themselves, I mean."

"Are you going to be okay back in DC?" On its own accord, his hand found hers on the table, grazing over it in a gesture that might have been seen as romantic to onlookers. The small brush of his hand over hers, the light drag of his ring over her knuckles, couldn't be further from that. Sharon hesitated, breath caught in her throat, before speaking. 

"I have to be." And there it was again, her cool exterior wall sliding over her face, as visible as if she had put on a mask. Even as her face relaxed, the harrowed look in her eyes spoke volumes. Bracing both hands on the table, she pushed herself up, standing over Sam. Slinging her satchel over her shoulder, she spoke, "It was nice seeing you again, Sam. Sorry I had to be the bearer of bad news." Sam shook his head. 

"Not your fault. I'll see you later, under better circumstances, I hope." He got up as well, going to shake her hand, but got caught in a tight, unmoving grip. Sharon’s eyes flicked down to the side for a second, pondering, before pulling him into a hug. He only let himself fall slightly into her, his chin resting on the broad shoulders of her suit for a quick moment. His brevity suited her too, as she pulled back just as fast, patting his back as she detangled herself from him. 

"Yeah." On instinct, Sharon’s hand went to the collar of his jacket, pressing it down slightly, before drawing away. She gave him one last strict nod, before turning away, throwing a quick, “Bye, Wilson,” over her shoulder. And so Sam was left standing in the middle of the coffee shop, still with no coffee. 

\- - - - -

The house shuddered with silence, save for the lone heater humming the tune of its own song. Sam shut the door gently, hoping not to stir Bucky on the sole belief that the other man was sleeping. The dark of the house was comforting, the small red dots on each corner of the room lulling Sam into a sense of security. 

Something shoved into his legs from behind, and Sam kicked forward, immediately moving away from the attacker, only to spot the flash of white fur and the gleam of cat eyes slinking past him. A gust of air released from his mouth, though through relief or afterthought of fear, he didn't know. Turning to the right, into the family room, the slight light of the outside lamp gleaming off of metal on the couch was the only indication Sam had that Bucky was, in fact, not asleep before the man spoke. 

“You're back.” Sam could faintly make out the whirring sound of Bucky's fingers, tapping melodically against the cushion of the couch closest to his thigh. Alpine brushed past Sam again, jumping up onto the couch to rest her head on Bucky’s lap. Sam was less hasty. As his eyes adjusted to the dim nature of the room, it wasn't difficult to make out how straight Bucky’s spine was, and how his eyes stared out the window instead of at Sam. He crept closer to the silent figure, even though his senses screamed at him. 

“How long have you been sitting here?” He wanted his voice to exude gentleness, tenderness, _peace_ , but he was tired. His tone spoke of long hours at work, and the hoarse sound reflected more fear than calm. Bucky showed no sign of hearing the slight difference, his blue eyes gaping wide, as if he could see past the night outside. 

“How long have you been gone?” And that was the very answer that Sam had been terrified of hearing, but before he could offer any comfort, _anything at all_ , Bucky added, rather softly, “Don't feel bad. It wasn't because you left.”

“You need to eat something.” It was a habit to say that, for Sam. The words tumbled out of his mouth as easily as he might say “hello” or “goodbye.” Bucky’s mouth wavered, and for a brief moment, Sam believed that the break of emotion would prove to be a step in the right direction. That was, until he spoke.

“Is that an order?” The Winter Soldier said, fingers still tapping rhythmically, although the pace had slowed down drastically. If Sam shook his head any harder, it would roll off of his neck. 

“God no, Barnes, of course not,” Sam whispered harshly, before stopping himself. Decided on a different approach, he continued. “Did you see what I left you?” There was no change in Bucky's face, no twitch in his lip, his eyes focused and unfocused at the same time. 

“I did.” Maybe Sam had completely misinterpreted how Bucky would take it when he had decided to place Rebecca Barnes’ file on the table. 

“Are you going to visit her?” 

The sharp laugh he received as a reply nearly sent him stumbling back into the wall. The single sound wove a tapestry in Sam’s head of self-loathing and incessant grief pounding at the walls of an otherwise impenetrable fortress. It shot daggers into his heart, and for a moment, he thought of Sarah, and wondered what Bucky would think of her, given whatever issues he had with his sister. 

“Of course I'm not.” Bucky's voice felt like gravel on a hot and dry day, his throat sounding as parched as it probably was. “I don’t want to kill anyone, you know.”

Against his better judgment, Sam perched on the end of the couch, at the edge of the cushion. “You think you'd cause her death?” 

Bucky sighed, and all of the tension slipped out of his body, leaving his shoulders slumped and his head held down. Sam felt the need to reach out and correct his posture, like a doll fallen over, but he doubted that his gesture would be appreciated. The sudden reanimated nature of Bucky’s body was an odd but welcome (hopefully) development. 

“She'd be in danger because of me. You are, already.” In his mind, Sam had a great deal of people coming after him just because of his role as the Falcon, but he also figured that Bucky was not in the mood to hear that from Sam. Instead, he scooted closer. 

“I feel like she would want to see you, regardless. You're safe here, Barnes.” The man twisted, a violent movement that Sam didn't see coming, his metal fingers curling around Sam’s wrist. Sam didn't dare move, didn't even speak. 

“I'm not. They're here,” he murmured, grasp loosening ever so slightly. His face was so close to Sam’s that he could clearly see the pure blue of his eyes, icy and missing the greenish warmth found in Steve’s eyes. Not that it mattered. 

“No one is here.” Sam willed his voice to not shake, to not show any sign of doubt with his words. Bucky’s metal thumb shifted slightly, almost as if stroking Sam’s pulse, but that definitely wasn’t the purpose, Sam was sure. 

“Did your cameras notify you that I was in this room?” They hadn't. His breaths started to come out quicker, and given their proximity, he was sure Bucky had noticed. “Sam, we are in danger.” 

He thought about Sharon, and the uneasy way she sat, as if ready to fly away at any moment. His eyes flicked to the camera in the corner of the room, nestled like a baby chick in a nest, unaware of its weakness against greater birds. Even though his mind tried to push itself off of the topic, he thought about the people who had stopped his ascent to the role of Captain America, and how far they'd go to keep someone like themselves in power. He finally met Bucky’s unwavering gaze, still as a statue once again, and spoke honestly.

“I know.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally forced myself to write this chapter, and I'm definitely hoping to get to some action soon. Thank you to everyone reading!


	4. just stop your crying (it's a sign of the times)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another small shuffle from the kitchen, and Bucky gave a slight nod to Sam, his supersoldier hearing alerting him to noises that the other man could not hear. Keeping low to the ground, Bucky crawled, a combination of predator stalking their prey and prey pressing themselves into the dirt under the tall grass to shield themselves. From the position he had dragged himself into, where the family room opened up into the living room, Bucky could just about make out a shadowy figure, also crouched, their upper body only just visible by the light of the approaching morning sky.  
> For a moment, the only sound was the drops of water falling periodically from the leaking faucet that Sam had sworn he would fix. And then it all went to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Harry Style's "Sign of the Times"

It was four o'clock in the morning when they finally snuck into the house. 

Bucky had to hand it to the intruder; he had assumed that they would come in through the sunroom or the living room windows, but the almost undetectable sound of the window sliding open was coming from the kitchen instead. His head unreasonably clear, Bucky recounted all of his weapons for the third time.

 _Three knives._ One on either thigh, the last one tucked neatly in his boot. _Three guns._ The first was placed on his belt, the other linked to his thigh holster, the last in the inner pocket of his jacket. Usually, the amount of weaponry on him would have been more than double what he was carrying now, but he hadn't even brought a lot with him to the safehouse in the first place; it was a mistake that he knew he was paying for now. 

Bucky’s gaze flicked to Sam, who was crouching a few feet away. Both of them were situated in the south corner of the family room, right underneath the two cameras perched up on the walls, in the blindspot. 

Another small shuffle from the kitchen, and Bucky gave a slight nod to Sam, his supersoldier hearing alerting him to noises that the other man could not hear. Keeping low to the ground, Bucky crawled, a combination of predator stalking their prey and prey pressing themselves into the dirt under the tall grass to shield themselves. From the position he had dragged himself into, where the family room opened up into the living room, Bucky could just about make out a shadowy figure, also crouched, their upper body only just visible by the light of the approaching morning sky. 

For a moment, the only sound was the drops of water falling periodically from the leaking faucet that Sam had sworn he would fix. And then it all went to shit. 

Bucky wasn't sure who moved first, but he liked to think that he did, his body moving on its own towards the kitchen. The sudden glint of the knife pulled by the other person had been enough to spur Bucky into action. Without bothering to pull out his own weapon, he lunged, his hands wrapping around the waist of the intruder, shoving them back into the kitchen island. Their head snapped back, colliding with an unpleasant _smack_. Even so, it didn't stun them for long, as their left hand came up to shove Bucky’s face. 

He snarled, his left hand closing around the intruder’s neck. They went limp underneath him, but still he pressed. Playing dead was a novice move. Tightening his grip, the assassin started to writhe again, blindly swatting at him. The Winter Soldier’s vision went red, and in his blind rage, his singular focus let in room for error. And error took control, Bucky only realizing too late that the other person had acquired their knife again. 

His metal arm occupied, Bucky reached down to guard his face from the upward slice, the sharp, searing pain in his palm letting him know that he had, in fact, been successful in shielding his face. A surge of adrenaline coursed through him, humming through his metal arm like simulated electricity, and he slammed the intruder back onto the floor, and they went limp. Judging by their breathing, it didn't seem to be a hoax. 

The rattle of metal behind him caused Bucky to whip around, swiping the knife off the floor, only to see Sam holding something thin and silver: handcuffs. 

“Not sure where you can loop these around so they don't escape but…” Sam dropped them into Bucky’s hands. He curled his hand around it, metal surrounding metal. Both of the men were silent for a while, the click of the handcuffs the only piercing sound, soon followed by the continuous dragging of the body to the living room.

“We need to get out of here,” Sam finally spoke, and even though he didn't mean to, Bucky snorted. 

“Glad to know we're on the same page.” He peeled off the black ski mask off the intruder, cursing himself right after for not noting the moisture gathered around the part of the mask where the mouth would lie. The man under the mask was clearly dead, though not by Bucky’s hand; the foam at his mouth smelled of cyanide, and the nature of his gaping eyes was not one caused by blunt force wounds. Sam didn't even startle at the sight of the body in front of him, and Bucky was reminded again how little he knew about the other’s experiences. 

“Are you telling me that you just handcuffed a dead dude to our staircase?” Bucky leaned his weight back on his heels, still squatting near the body. The smell of almonds drifted past his nose. He shrugged as best as he could. 

“I didn't tell you shit, but yeah, that's apparently what I did.” He slung his metal arm over his knees, studying the man's sharp facial structure, his sunken eyes, his thin lips covered in bitter foam. “This was too easy,” he murmured under his breath, but Sam didn't need magnified hearing to pick up what he had said. 

“Your hand tells me otherwise.” At the mention of the cut on his hand, the pain registered. While he had suffered many injuries much greater than this, this was the first time in a good while that he had gotten hurt through an attack. Still, he held up his cold, unharmed exterior, letting the blood seep out of the cut. 

“Mind your business, Wilson,” was the only response he gave, and for a second, Bucky translated the shuffling of footsteps away from him to be Sam actually giving up, but he knew not to put much hope on that statement. A few seconds later, and the footsteps were back, heading his way, and Bucky half-turned his head to see Sam with a first aid kit. 

“Tough luck.” He crouched down next to Bucky, gently grabbing his flesh wrist and cleaning the edge of the cut with alcohol. Bucky didn't wince; the sting was welcome to him. As Sam started to wrap a clean bandage around his palm, Bucky turned to look back at the body. He didn't want to let Sam see his surprise; not at the fact that Sam was helping it, but he was surprised that he was _letting_ Sam help him. The elephant in the room was just a perfect escape from whatever conflicted feelings Bucky was going through. 

“I just mean that they had to know that only sending one person would result in their capture and-” He gestured to the blueish tint in the skin, the frosted over look in the eyes, the overall ghostly manner of everything. “Their death too, apparently.” Sam made a humming sound in the back of his throat, as if thinking, still caught up in wrapping Bucky’s hand. A slight pinch, and the bandage was tied. Sam's attention was now to the body, and Bucky didn't know how to feel about that. Relieved, probably. Hopefully. 

“I'm not sure, but-” Sam started, but then the doorbell rang. 

Both of the men shot up, and Bucky slipped the gun from the inner pocket of his jacket out, a little too tired and pissed to worry about possibly damaging the furniture. Striding over to the door, he barely looked out the small circular eyehole before swinging open the door, his gun pointed squarely at Sharon's navel. To her credit, she didn't look surprised at all.

“I'm in some deep shit,” she stated bluntly, Bucky's hand on his gun unmoving although no longer quite focused on her. Her eyes glanced quickly to the dead body chained to the stairway, before returning to meet Bucky’s gaze. “And apparently, you guys are too.” 

\- - - - -

Alpine, bless her soul, didn't fight Bucky as she was placed back into his carrier. 

“This was a cool house,” Bucky said, hauling the carrier into the back of Sharon’s oddly normal looking car. It was one of those minivan type shits with the cupholders in the back and front that resembled what a suburban soccer mom would use to take her four screaming kids to a game. It didn't fit Sharon at all, and maybe that was the point. It did make for good storage space, though. 

Sam didn't seem happy with the level of gratitude that he had expressed. “Seriously Barnes? That's all you got?” Bucky shrugged, throwing his backpack right behind the front seats without the same level of carefulness. 

“We stayed here for a few days. I yelled at you. Someone attacked us.” He listed it off as simply as he would a grocery list, before turning to face Sam. If he had even just a bit more attitude, he would have been wagging a metal finger in Sam’s face. “Also we're apparently in close proximity to Steve, but I'm deciding to ignore that for now.” The other man’s face had resignation signed all over it, and the look he gave Sharon attested to that; it also might have been because of his mention of Steve. He slammed the back door, reaching for the passenger’s door, before Sam’s hand stopped him. Bucky groaned internally, opening the back door again and climbing in after Alpine. 

The hum of the car grounded him, almost persuading him to look back at the window. A heavy feeling lingered in his stomach. Approximately seventy years ago, his life became something of violence and pain, and it had yet to cease. He had put no faith in his apartment to shield him from his life, and he would have liked to think he hadn't hoped anything different for this safehouse. Yet, he felt the loss of the house deeper, just another confirmation that he would never be safe, no matter where he was. The feeling stuck like glue, even as he yanked his gaze away from the house as the car started to roll past. 

“Carter,” Bucky murmured, emboldened to continue only when he noticed Sharon’s eyes flick to his in the rearview mirror. “Did you drive all the way from DC to here?” She choked out a laugh. 

“I actually never left New York in the first place.” And then she went quiet. Bucky didn't know whether to curse her for not making it easy for him to make conversation, or thank her for allowing him to not talk. Even with the perfect opportunity to shut up for the rest of the car ride, Bucky powered on. 

“Care to explain that one?” He questioned, opening the carrier door so that he could pet Alpine, who seemed somewhat content to stay in the carrier (or maybe it was just that Bucky was blocking the entrance, now). Sharon sighed, but now Sam was interested too, angling his body towards the driver’s seat. 

“Someone bugged my fucking hotel, too.” Bucky wasn't exactly sure what the “too” in her statement implied, but by the recognition in his eyes, Sam seemed to know exactly what she was talking about. Bucky wasn't one to be left out, so he decided to move past that. 

“Ah. Is that when you started driving, then?” Conversation was like interrogation, apparently. Actually, it might be worse, given that the last few interrogations that Bucky has tried to give have ended in cyanide. At least that ended quickly. 

“Nah. I started driving when someone shot through my hotel window.” 

“Oh.” Because what else was Bucky supposed to say to that?

Sam whipped his head around harshly. “Are you okay?” And okay, Bucky could have probably replied with that. Sharon, keeping one hand on the wheel, waved him off. 

“I'm fine. A terrible shot, anyway. Pierced my bed stand instead of my pillow.” That was definitely a terrible shot, in Bucky’s books at least.

“So they're untrained?” Bucky muttered, mostly to himself. Sharon shrugged, but Bucky had already drawn that conclusion. The amount of missions that Bucky had gone on that involved shooting through windows and the amount of those that were successful were nearly equal, the only one being the one where he had shot Fury. Which was technically also his first encounter with Sharon.

Bucky leaned back in his seat. Now that he was thinking about it, he couldn't recall a positive encounter he had had with Sharon. With that in mind, it wasn't hard to see why she wasn't talking to him. 

Alpine purred softly under Bucky's hand, rubbing her cheek against his palm. The cat had partially come out of the carrier, enough so that she still had the security of the box. Again, he met Sharon's gaze in the rearview mirror, but she immediately ripped her stare away to focus on the road. Very odd. 

"Where are we going?" Sam spoke softly, adjusting the bag at his feet. Again, Sharon looked at Bucky in the mirror. She didn't respond to Sam.

"You can tell me where we're going," Bucky murmured, shifting uncomfortably in the back seat. Sam reclined his seat back far too much, and it was not helping Bucky's legs at all. "I won't murder anybody." He meant it as a joke, but his tone was far too cold for that; he had a bad feeling about Sharon's silence, and what that meant for the location. 

"Well, as I'm sure you know," Sharon started, her voice slow but not placating, "Steve is in this area."

He feigned a calm demeanor, even though his heart was screaming from its prison of bone. Alpine stopped purring, and looked at Bucky with as much emotion as a cat could muster. "I've been made aware, yes," he responded dryly, scratching behind the cat's ears. Bucky forced himself to stay planted in his seat, worrying that if he moved, he would try to grab the steering wheel and drive the car in the opposite direction. Maybe even towards the safehouse. Dealing with more intruders would be better than the situation he was in currently, anyway. 

"We aren't going to visit him." He didn't let out a sigh of relief, but Bucky felt like he did. A small bit of tension released like a wave rolling back before a storm. He still wasn't relaxed, knowing that there would be a "but" in her statement, somewhere. 

"Do you usually start off your plans with what you're not going to do?" Alpine made a squeaky sound at Bucky’s statement, and Bucky pondered his words for a few seconds before following up with, "Actually, that might have some reason to it." 

"We are going to visit James." Bucky schooled his features in a mask of neutrality and passiveness. "His son." Bucky didn't need a reminder, the echoes of the voicemail still bouncing around his empty skull like a logo on the screen of an idle television. He had to remind himself, though, that Sharon didn't know that specifically; or maybe Sam told her, but he wouldn't have been that specific. 

"I see." There was a small silence between the three, as if Sharon and Sam expected Bucky to elaborate on the utter confusion and betrayal and sadness and feeling of worthlessness that resided in his head. Sharon glanced away from the road to exchange silent conversation with Sam, their eyes boring into each other for a few seconds. 

"James is a common name-" Sharon started, but the smallest shake of Sam's head stopped her. She sighed, her nails clicking against the steering wheel as she drummed them. "Yeah, I think it's kinda fucked, too." Bucky let out a hoarse laugh at that. There was really no better way to put it, but it was time to move past that. 

"So are we staying with the kid?" Bucky was starting to think that he wasn’t as good at acting unimpressed as he thought he was, if the pity in Sharon’s voice was enough to go off of. 

"Biologically, he's older than you,” she said gently, as if those were the words that were going to send Bucky into a Winter Soldier state of mind. Her tone turned brisk as she continued, “And no, I actually work with his daughter; I'm picking up a package." 

"What's the package?" He asked immediately, mostly because he expected that her statement would be followed by silence that seemed so in character for her, at this point. Even then, he didn't expect a full answer, and he definitely didn't get one. 

"It's some files on Walker." Bucky hadn't heard that name before, but once again, it seemed like it would have been worth it for Bucky to have bugged Sam before he went to New York City, just to have heard his conversation with Sharon. Sam seemed to know exactly who Walker was. 

Bucky shrugged it off. "I'm sure if it's important, I'll learn about it in the future when it's relevant to me." A choked cough from Sam, sounding like a cut off laugh, filled Bucky with an odd surge of satisfaction. 

An hour later, they pulled up to a large house, somewhat plain looking. Bucky wanted to laugh at the irony of this house resembling a safehouse more than the actual safehouse did, but he assumed that wouldn’t be proper. He stared at the front door, surprising himself for no reason when it flung open.

Three kids sprinted towards the car; two girls, ribbons in their hairs and flowery shirts and jeans, followed by a boy, also wearing flowery attire. Sharon likewise swung her car door, running out to meet the children. Sam, much more slowly, started to open the passenger’s door, turning back to catalog Bucky’s confusion. “Great-grandchildren,” Sam mouthed, and oh. Bucky felt old. 

More slowly, a woman, approximately Sharon’s age, followed the kids out. Bucky didn't doubt for a minute that this woman was as formidable as Sharon, if not more so, just by the way that she carried herself. He slowly crawled his way out of the car, wondering for a minute as to whether leaving Alpine in the car was animal endangerment. They weren't going to be here for long, anyway, and so Bucky put Alpine back in the carrier and left the windows of the back seats open. He stepped out, finally, and the youngest girl saw him first. He expected fear, at his disheveled appearance, at the dark bags underneath his eyes and hair that leaned on his shoulder. 

What he got was the child running towards him and stopping just before colliding with his legs, looking up at him with bright blue-green eyes. 

“Are you Bucky?” She chirped, and the surprise radiation from Sam was tangible when Bucky replied back gently.

“I am.” And the girl’s face split into a smile. She tugged on the sleeve of his jacket, and Bucky marveled at her blatant unafraid nature. 

“My name’s Cassie!” She replied happily, pulling Bucky in the direction of the house. He followed, although uncomfortable; he didn't want to make the girl cry. Sam followed next to him, just a few steps behind.

"It's nice to meet you, Cassie." She gasped and dropped his sleeve, and for a second, Bucky was sure that he had made some colossal mistake and that he was about to get beaten to hell by the woman on the porch. Relief poured into him when Cassie grinned widely, dancing around in a dizzying fashion.

"I almost forgot!" She ran around Bucky a few times, fueled by pure excitement. When she finally stopped in front of him, she grabbed both of his jacket sleeves. "Grandpa Stevie's going to be so excited that we have a special visitor." 

Sam froze. From where she was standing at the entrance to the porch, Sharon whipped around, facing the woman instead of the children she had been talking to. 

"Margaret, what the fu-" Sharon cut herself off, as if reminding herself of the children. "You said he wouldn't _be_ here." Margaret shrugged, and even from where Bucky was standing, he could tell she didn't regret her actions.

"Sorry Sharon. I gotta look out for my family first." And that was a sentiment that Bucky wished he could respect, but he was frozen to the ground. He barely registered Cassie pulling repeatedly on his sleeves. All he could see was the shadow appearing at the open door, cane in hand. Suddenly, there was Steve, his icy hair offset by the color in his eyes. He lifted a hand in welcome. Bucky opened his mouth to speak, and closed it. Opened it, and closed it again. 

"If we're going to have a conversation, can I at least bring my cat inside?" Bucky was nothing if not a man with priorities. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that so many things happened in this chapter, I've lowkey been forcing myself to write. I'm hoping to get to a clear position in this fic, plotwise, that will make it easier to write. Until then, thanks for sticking with me!


	5. baby don't you see (what you done threw away)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house seemed old. It was renovated, but the foundations, the style, the colors all spoke to an old era, one that probably spoke to Steve in the same way that it called to Bucky. The antique wooden table was the centerpiece of the room that Bucky was invited into, complete with somewhat matching chairs and a small dark chandelier. At the head of table, Steve sat expectantly, a small smile on his face.  
> Oh. Because he didn't know that Bucky hated him with his entire heart and soul. Probably because it was slightly a lie, but the point still stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Chloe x Halle's "Forgive Me"

They let Alpine inside the house, much to Cassie's delight. She and the other two great-grandchildren, Elliot and Vanessa, scrambled to pet the white cat, who only slightly shied away from their attention. 

The house seemed old. It was renovated, but the foundations, the style, the colors all spoke to an old era, one that probably spoke to Steve in the same way that it called to Bucky. The antique wooden table was the centerpiece of the room that Bucky was invited into, complete with somewhat matching chairs and a small dark chandelier. At the head of table, Steve sat expectantly, a small smile on his face.

Oh. Because he didn't know that Bucky hated him with his entire heart and soul. Probably because it was slightly a lie, but the point still stood. 

"Sit down, Buck." His voice sounded different, because of age, but to Bucky, it still rang with the sounds of old memories and happiness. Bucky did not sit, and willed his words to work for him, just this once. 

"I'm good." Bucky stood rigid at the end of the table behind the tall chair opposite from Steve. The other man's eyes narrowed slightly, as if pondering Bucky's short statement with the intensity of a research scientist. His head tilted slightly to the side, regarding Bucky with a softness that he wished he could punch. 

"What's wrong?" The concern in Steve's voice almost made Bucky cringe, wanting to press himself against the wall and blend into his surroundings. It made him feel naked, all too seen and bare in front of the man he couldn't say that he knew. He didn't trust himself to speak full sentences without something stupid coming out his mouth. 

"What's not?" And Steve sighed, right when the words came out, as if he had already been expecting it and had kept an exhale just for Bucky. How charming. "We can't play this game of half-truths Buck. We know each other too well." Anger, barely controlled and out of nowhere, boiled at the surface of Bucky's throat, threatening to overflow in the form of bile in his mouth. He swallowed, as if that would push down the feelings.

"Do we?" It wasn't meant to be sarcastic. Bucky maybe meant it to sting slightly, but he also wondered what kind of delusion was running Steve's head right now. He used to be so good at reading the other man, but it was harder now to recognize the expression in the old man's face.

"Of course we do." There it was, the voice that sounded like someone soothing a scared stray dog, the voice Bucky would use on Alpine. The gentleness managed to shake Bucky more than a raised voice would.

Well, Steve was partially right. Bucky couldn't continue to reply back with half-sentences strung together with thinly veiled hatred and irony. "How much time after you found me as the Winter Soldier did we spend together?" Steve paused, not expecting to have to answer a question. Bucky continued dryly, "You staring at me while I was sleeping in that lab doesn't count." As he said it, he regretted the light that it brought to Steve's eyes, and he cursed himself for falling into the same, familiar ease that he sought so badly from the other man. 

"About a year. But Bucky, you have to stop thinking of yourself in terms of your time as the Winter Soldier." Whatever gateway into easy conversation that Bucky had opened slammed shut immediately at his words, cold running through his veins. 

"Don't patronize me." His voice was icy, though not to the level of how he spoke to Steve as the Winter Soldier. Bucky was sure Steve could handle it. "I've been Bucky Barnes for thirty-five years. I was the Winter Soldier for _seventy._ I can't put it aside just because it's not pretty, Steve." 

"I never said that." _Yeah, but it sure felt like it,_ Bucky bit back an angry retort in favor of a short and simple reply that he knew would get on Steve's nerves. 

"I know." Steve's eyebrows furrowed, accentuating the wrinkles that populated his forehead. 

"You're mad at me." Bucky scoffed at that, regretting it right after as the sound echoed through the empty dining room. Contrary to the sound of pure resentment he had made, he replied back. 

"I'm not." Neither of them truly believed it.

"But you don't want to be here," Steve murmured, and Bucky wanted to scream at him. He didn't even know Steve was going to be here. He got into the car, not knowing where he was going, and now he was here, staring at the man who he used to know like the back of his hand as if he was now a stranger. 

"I really don't." It was an honest answer, and Bucky didn't have any other words to say that he could trust himself with. Steve leaned back, too casual, into his chair, which couldn't have been as comfortable as he was making it seem. He averted his eyes from Bucky, which he hadn't done since the moment he had arrived, staring at the floor in deep thought. He finally met his eyes again. 

"I don't know why I'm surprised."

"You know what? I'm not sure why you're surprised, either," came Bucky's quick reply, and Steve, damn him, chuckled, before his face adopted a stony demeanor once more. His tone grew more serious. 

"We talked about it before I left, what I was doing." Steve was correct, but Bucky couldn't help but feel like he was being misunderstood, even with as little as he said. 

"Yes, I'm aware of what we did. My memory isn't shitty anymore." It might have been a low blow, but Bucky was allowed to make jokes about his own trauma. Steve flinched, and odd satisfaction surged through Bucky, if only momentarily. "I'm not mad at you for going," he continued, trying to soften his voice, even if his tone remained dull and lifeless. "I just don't want you to act like we still have this unbreakable bond when you had no problem leaving."

Steve leaned forward, bracing a hand on the table. Even with the distance between them, Bucky felt cornered, pushing past the need to back up. "You're still my closest friend."

A laugh bubbled out of him, sounding more like a choked sob than anything. "Am I? Really? At this point, you've lived most of your life without me." Steve sighed; what else was he supposed to say to that? The satisfaction of being correct never came for Bucky, just replaced with loneliness and bitter anger. 

"Buck, I just want to understand where you're coming from-" Steve started, pushing against the table in an attempt to get up, but stopped as he and Bucky both picked up on the sound of footsteps. Sharon appeared at the doorway to the family room, and Bucky thanked every deity he could think of for sending her to save him from his impending doom. Sharon had the audacity to look as if she regretted interrupting, and triumph fogged Bucky's mind as she addressed him, and not Steve. 

"Sorry to interrupt," she muttered, nodding in Bucky's direction to further stroke his ego. "But I got some things to show you."

\- - - - -

"So," Margaret spoke, pointing to something on Walker’s files. Sharon had quietly filled Bucky in on the general gist of the situation, with Sam not being Captain America and all that shit. “When I was in DC, I heard some buzz about this dude. It seems like he has a pretty good fighting record and stuff; people respect him.” 

Bucky tried his best to focus on the woman talking, and not on Steve, who was now even closer to him than he was during the conversation, sitting only four feet away from Bucky’s still standing figure. They were all congregated in the family room, and while most of them were sitting on the sofas, there was no air of comfort and ease; the room was tense, because of the topic at hand and maybe because of Bucky. 

Margaret was aptly named, reminding Bucky completely of Peggy as he knew her. He was glad of that; he bore no ill will towards the woman, so it was much easier for him to believe that there was more of Peggy in Margaret than Steve. 

“Yes, we do know that much about him, I think, but…” Sharon trailed off, looking at Margaret expectantly, who just sighed. 

“So I know someone who works at the Raft, and they've been telling me that Walker has been going to that place.” Bucky's breaths came out shaky, and he caught Steve looking at him through his peripheral vision. He ignored the concern; it was misplaced, anyway. 

“The Raft is still running?” Bucky asked, not really expecting anyone to hear him, which was a stupid assumption to begin with. At the sight of everyone in the room turning to him, he followed up quickly. “You'd think after that place has been broken into ‘bout fifty times, they'd think to renovate or some shit.” The corner of Margaret's mouth lifted up slightly, and something in the look that she gave him was odd. It was almost as if she was glowing, some weird happiness fighting to break through.

It was then that Bucky had to remind himself that apparently, her father was named after Bucky. And this was the first time he was meeting Steve’s family. So maybe that was what it was: awe. 

“Well, they renovated for sure. But they haven’t gotten any smarter,” Sharon mumbled, earning a small flash of a smile from Margaret, who paused as if to check that Sharon didn’t have anything else to say before continuing.

“Apparently, Agent Walker has been visiting Baron Zemo in prison.” Bucky’s eyebrows shot up at that. 

“You kidding? He's in the Raft?” He tried to control his outburst, somewhat, embarrassed to show any sort of emotion around Steve now, but ever since the incident from what seemed like yesterday and ages ago, Bucky hadn't heard shit on Zemo.

“Yes, and over the past two months or so, he's been visiting Zemo almost weekly-”

“Can I ask something?” Sam's interruption was out of nowhere. Bucky had almost forgotten that the man was sitting in the lone armchair, his hand on his chin and his legs crossed. Margaret, somehow, must have known he would speak, because the smallest shiver went through her body; she wasn't looking forward to what he had to say. And neither would Bucky, if he knew what was going on, just judging by the cold look in Sam's eyes. He didn't like it on Sam, and he had the odd urge to make Sam laugh or something, just to return some warmth to his gaze. 

“How long did you know that I wasn’t going to become Captain America?” The temperature dropped a few degrees. Sharon seemed as if she was only just connecting the dots, while both Margaret and Steve were frozen. Maybe there was a lot of him in her. 

Margaret measured out her words carefully, and Bucky could almost _see_ her writing out the script for what she was going to say before she finally spoke. “Nothing was set in stone until around the time I told Sharon to tell you about it.” Sam’s jaw clenched, and his voice was too soft, too forced for it to be utterly sincere. 

“Can you honestly tell me, then, that the only reason you were watching Walker was because of how often he was visiting that jail?” Bucky wondered what kind of shit Sam had to be on to still ask relevant, thoughtful questions while angry and where Bucky could get some for himself. 

“No.” At least she didn't lie about it. Sharon regarded the other woman with an expression, an amalgamation of feelings that Bucky couldn't quite read. Was it betrayal? Pain? Confusion? It was a little too much. 

“So you knew, then.” Sam’s words sounded like an exhale, sounded like _giving up_ , and he didn't need to be a supersoldier to know that _that_ was the sound of betrayal. He did utilize his supersoldier hearing when it came to the small _smack_ that Steve’s lips made as he opened his mouth to speak, and Bucky wished he had slapped Steve before he got the chance.

“We guessed it, Sam.” There it was, the concern in his voice that rattled Bucky to the core. Bucky almost felt bad for Steve, knowing that it wasn't going to fly well with Sam, who was well versed in showing concern for others. _Almost_ felt bad. 

Sam’s head whipped around to face Steve, and with the quick flash of realization that lit up the other man’s features, Bucky could tell that Sam hadn't even considered the fact that Steve would have known about it as well. Sam’s lip curled slightly, disgusted. “Fuck. Off.” 

“I wanted to tell you Sam, but I honestly thought you would get the position.” Steve had never known when to back down in a fight, and Bucky used to think that was a quality to admire. There was something to commend, though, in knowing when you're in the wrong. 

“Stop lying to me,” Sam muttered, clenching the end of the armchair with his fingers like claws. 

“I took precautions.” Bucky didn't like where this was going, mainly because it reeked of Steve trying to play God where he shouldn't have even touched. “I had you get Bucky so that both of you could work something out. I figured that maybe you'd be able to prove you really deserved the position or something, and Bucky could help-” 

“Steve, be quiet," Bucky said, his voice firm, so unlike how it had been earlier, and Steve’s mouth snapped shut. Sam took the moment of silence to storm off, and apparently Steve's silence was only brief, as he got up to follow Sam. Bucky got up as well, if only to block Steve. “Do not,” he started, but Steve still moved around him. Sharon’s voice was the only thing that stopped Bucky from going after the two other men. 

“Bucky, wait,” she murmured, and Bucky knew she understood, even as she continued. “Let them go. We still have to discuss this.” He sat back down, noting the uncomfortable tension between Sharon and Margaret as they started up their conversation again. Sharon had asked him to stay, probably for his input, but he found himself angling his hearing to the room hallway that Sam and Steve had disappeared to. He tried not to look too out of it, but after Bucky realized that he could, in fact, hear the two men talking, he completely tuned out of Sharon’s conversation. 

“-no need for you to keep trying to control what other people are doing, Steve!” Sam was speaking fast, anger evident in his words. 

“I'm not trying to control you, I'm trying to help.” Bucky wasn't shocked in the slightest to hear Steve use the reason of concern and good will for meddling in their lives. He leaned back further into the sofa, as if that would serve as an aid for his stellar hearing. 

“You're not our leader anymore, Steve.” Sam still sounded tense, but the level of anger had been diluted, at least for the moment. 

“But I'm your friend. I'm allowed to be concerned.” 

“You're allowed to be concerned if you simply _tell us_ instead of doing what you think is right.” Satisfaction poured into Bucky, and he had to make sure that his facade of indifference wasn't broken by a small smile. He listened as Sam continued, “These are our lives, Steve. Barnes was living his life, too.”

“Was he really?” A small noise erupted out of Bucky. Sharon and Margaret both turned to him, but he just stared at them earnestly, as if he had been listening the whole time. The latter didn't think much of it, but Sharon gave him a small nod, as if acknowledging the fact that he had been listening to the wrong conversation. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?" Sam's hiss brought Bucky back to attention. "Do you have no respect?” He obviously couldn't see the two men, but Bucky could swear that Steve was trying his hardest to backpedal out of whatever mess he had made. 

“Of course I do, but-”

“No, shut the fuck up. He was right.” The second sentence was more of an afterthought, whispered out at a volume that Bucky strained to hear, but he heard it anyway. 

“About?” Steve's voice was equally quiet, contemplative, as if genuinely wanting to know what Bucky was right about. 

“If you wanted any say in how this all plays out, then you should have stayed.” 

“I thought you of all people might understand." Bucky wasn't sure what that meant. "But then again, I thought that about Bucky too.” He knew what that meant, though, combined with the bitterness of Steve's tone. 

“What does that mean.” It wasn't a question, gritted out from behind bared teeth. Bucky had to guess that Sam was referring to the first part of the statement. 

“If you had the ability to go back and live with Riley-”

“Stop.” Even Bucky paused, for a second, the gravity of the single word weighing him down. He didn't even have time to linger on whatever the hell Steve had said, only knowing that it was out of line. 

“I'm sorry.” 

“You're not," came Sam's firm reply, and by the few solid footsteps that echoed after, Bucky could tell that Sam was trying to escape. There was a small squeak that followed, as if Sam had turned back on his heel. "How the hell did you think I would react to that?” Sam had raised his voice again, but only slightly; he didn't need much to get his point across.   
“I'm just trying to make you see my side.” Scratch that; Sam would need much more to thoroughly change Steve's mind. 

“Yes Steve, and that's your _problem._ Your stubbornness has taken a turn for the worse,” Sam added coldly. Bucky thought that was it when he heard more footsteps, but then he realized the sounds were slightly quieter; Sam was moving back towards Steve. 

“For the record, Steve," and Bucky had to really focus to pick up the low whisper of words from Sam, "I know I don't know shit about you two- at least, I thought I knew about you but…” An exhale. Was it from Steve or Sam? It could have been from either. “You were Bucky’s Riley, I think. And I thought he was yours, as well. So that's where your cute comparison falls apart.”

And now the footsteps were definitely getting louder, and Bucky leaned forward, towards Sharon. She picked up the movement easily, her eyes flicking to the hallway, Sam appearing only seconds after before sitting down stiffly onto the armchair. Bucky tried to make eye contact, though he wasn't sure what kind of help he was supposed to offer him. He had never been the most supportive person after Hydra had happened, anyway. Steve walked into the room as well, sitting in the same position as before, and Bucky sure as hell didn't try to make eye contact there. 

"So, Sam," Sharon stated, and God bless her for addressing him and not Steve, "We're going to DC, and you're going to meet Walker."

Sam took it in a stride. "Meeting is already set up?" Sharon was already shaking her head.

"No, but I think I still have the ability and maybe the authority. As far as I'm concerned, my entire job didn't hire a hitman on me," she joked slightly, and Sam's mouth twitched. He made eye contact with Bucky for a minute, and lingered there. For once, Bucky wasn't compelled to look away. 

"Alright, then. What am I trying to gain from it?" Sam asked, looking back to Sharon, who was staring at the files in front of her. 

"Well, you're not really trying to get your job back. It's more like a probe for information." Sam nodded, just a slight movement, his back straight as he sat at the edge of the armchair; he was ready to leave whenever Sharon said it was time to go. Bucky had no such patience.

"You got all the info you need, Carter?" He asked bluntly, noting how Sam's eyebrows twitched as if they had started to shoot up in surprise. Sharon nodded her assent, and Bucky trained his gaze back on Sam, letting a smile drift onto his face. He hoped he projected some semblance of warmth. Judging by what he could see of Steve's face in the field of his vision, he was succeeding. 

“Well then, Cap,” he murmured, speaking directly to Sam, “Are you ready to go?” The look in Sam’s eyes was worth more than any look of longing in Steve’s. 

\- - - - -

Sharon passed out in the backseat of the car half an hour after Bucky told her he would drive, Alpine’s carrier moved down right behind Bucky’s seat. It was more like twenty minutes, actually, given that she argued with him about if he was a safe enough driver. Sam had chimed in that he could drive, but Bucky was already climbing into the front seat, and that was that. 

Bucky was a good driver, and while he didn't want to know what mission he had honed that skill on, he was glad he had it. He glanced over at Sam, who was sitting in the passenger's seat, staring out the window. He was twisting the ring around his finger, again. Bucky was sure that Sam was aware of him staring. 

“I-” He stopped as soon as he started, realizing that he probably should have thought about what he was saying. Too late, though, because Sam had already turned away from the window to look at him. Gathering his words, he tried again.

“I'm not going to pretend that I wasn't listening in on your conversation,” he murmured, trying not to wake up Sharon. Sam laughed, easing some of Bucky's anxiety.

“I was wondering when you were going to tell me,” Sam replied back, and Bucky flashed a quick grin at his statement, surprising himself. 

“Yeah, I… thanks for defending me,” he mumbled, tripping over his words as they rolled off his tongue. Sam shrugged. 

“I didn't really see it like that. I would have but,” Sam added quickly, before slowly down. Bucky could hear the change in his breathing pattern, as if Sam was forcing his entire body to slow before speaking again. “He was just wrong. Steve, I mean.”

“I know.” And he did know, even with as little knowledge and background as he had. His lack of information reminded him of a certain part of the conversation, but Bucky was hesitant to bring it up. Nevertheless, he spoke. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Riley?” Bucky shouldn't have been surprised at this point, at Sam’s ability to read people like a book. He still indulged himself, letting the spark of shock linger in his lungs for a little bit longer. 

“Should I be concerned that I'm this easy to read?” It was a joke; at least, Bucky hoped it came off as one, rather than the distinct threat that he knew he could make it to be. If Sam’s small smile was anything to go by (and it was), the humor had gotten through. 

“If it makes you feel better, you're one of the most confusing people I've met.” Somehow, that did make him feel better. “I only guessed because I'm not sure what else you had to wonder about.” Sam was wrong about that, of course. Bucky could have asked questions upon questions about the conversation but in theory, Sam wasn't completely off. 

“That's true,” Bucky replied, staring at the open road in front of him, at the trees that danced as he passed them. “So am I overstepping?” He added quietly. His lack of volume wasn't for Sharon, although it might have started out that way; the look on Sam’s face made it seem like he was in deep thought, as if deciding whether or not to tell Bucky something, and he didn't want to disturb that. 

“I don't think so,” Sam spoke, his words dragging together as if he was still thinking about each word when it left his mouth, so different from the execution of the next sentence that he said. “Riley was my boyfriend.” 

And that was something Bucky had not been thinking. Or maybe he had been thinking it, but just not considering it. “Did Steve know?” The question served no purpose except for biding time for Bucky to actually say something relevant. 

Sam, as always, took the question seriously. “I don't think so. At least, I never explicitly told him. But when he compared him to Peggy, I thought, ‘Maybe…’” He leaned back in his seat, staring at Bucky. “Do you have a problem with it?” 

Bucky shook his head furiously; if he had gone any faster, his head might have snapped off. “Not at all.” Sam rose one eyebrow at his vehement denial, so Bucky glanced at him as he said, “I really don't. Furthest from that, honestly.” He wondered whether he should tell him more, but his closed off nature won over. There were some things that Bucky wasn't ready for. 

“Good.” It sounded like a conclusion, the end of the conversation. For once, Bucky didn't really want to stop talking.

“Wilson.” The name was out of his mouth before he even thought of what to say.

“Barnes?” And bless Sam for giving him an idea. 

“Can I ask you a favor?” 

“Depends.”

“Can you call me Bucky?” He asked, letting his eyes wander off the road again and onto Sam, who was looking at him. A soft smile played on Sam's lips, and Bucky couldn't help but notice how much it suited him. 

“Can you call me Sam?” He angled his body towards Bucky, a promise of more conversation, and leaned the side of his head against the seat. “You've called me Sam before,” he reminded, and Bucky stared back at the road. 

“I guess I can do it then,” Bucky murmured, before adding, “Sam.” He wasn't trying to look, but the bright flash of Sam’s smile wasn't something he could miss. 

“Then yes, Bucky, I can.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just find out that Alpine is actually supposed to be a girl? Yes I did. Now I'm wondering whether I should keep Alpine a guy in this fanfic, or go back and change all the pronouns, or just start with the changed pronouns now. I'm not sure. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed!


	6. i tried to write your name in the rain (but the rain never came)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What?" Bucky chuckled slightly at Sam’s exclamation; he couldn't help it. Sam's eyes flicked up to Bucky's face, and Bucky held the gaze this time. He was getting better at it, he liked to think, and it felt like a cute little dare. It kind of felt like the looks he would exchange with women, while dancing, faces inches from each other, ending up even closer by the end of the night.   
>  And what an odd comparison that was, contrasting Sam with the women he dated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from The Neighbourhood's "Daddy Issues"

This one definitely looked like a safehouse to Bucky. There was some sort of comfort that he found in the lack of comfort of the situation. It was an abandoned little building that surprisingly hadn't been renovated since the destruction of SHIELD. Sharon had told him that it was an area that was supposedly radioactive since debris from a helicarrier had landed on it. The reality was that people still used it to test out weaponry, passing off the loud noises as detonations caused by the old mess. 

Within the husk of whatever building used to stand was a small steel trap door leading to a bunker; this was definitely more of Bucky's style. The room itself wasn't too small, actually; there were three small mattresses on the floor that looked fine enough, though his standards weren't anything to go by. 

Sharon and Sam followed after him, setting their bags down on their respective beds, immediately congregating around Sharon's tablet. There was silence, save for a few beeps and clicks, before Sharon spoke. 

"I just finalized the terms of the meeting," she said, still typing rapidly, finishing up an email. "You're going to meet right… here," and she pointed to some place on the map. Bucky craned his neck to see what she was pointing to, and it seemed to be a location around where the Triskelion fell. She made air circles with her finger around the spot. Sam studied the map, as if committing it to memory, the handsome lines of his face flexing as his jaw clenched. He met Bucky's eyes for a small instant but the gaze never got the chance to hold; maybe he imagined it. 

"So when's the meeting?" Sam inquired, bending down to arrange some things from his bag, snapping upright at Sharon's all too casual, "An hour." 

"What?" Bucky chuckled slightly at Sam’s exclamation; he couldn't help it. Sam's eyes flicked up to Bucky's face, and Bucky held the gaze this time. He was getting better at it, he liked to think, and it felt like a cute little dare. It kind of felt like the looks he would exchange with women, while dancing, faces inches from each other, ending up even closer by the end of the night. 

And what an odd comparison that was, contrasting Sam with the women he dated. 

"Don't worry, go as you are. You don't need a suit and shit, it should be safe," Sharon said calmly, breaking Bucky out of his thoughts. To his surprise, he realized that Sam had only  _ just _ turned away, so he had held Bucky’s stare for quite some time. 

“I do wish you had told me a little earlier, but whatever,” Sam muttered, grabbing a few things from his bag and stuffing them in his pockets. “So do I just walk or something?”   
“Just take the bus,” Sharon tossed out flippantly, already moving to lay down on her mattress. “And let me sleep for a few more hours.” 

“Want me to come with?” Bucky asked softly, and the muffled mumble from Sharon, her face pressed into her thin pillow gave him an answer. Sam only affirmed it.

“Sorry Bucky, I don't think it's best for you to come with me, given that you're…” He trailed off, as if picking his words, but then continued as if thinking nothing of it. “Like waving a red flag?” 

It was a valid comparison, and Bucky searched his mind for offense and found none. And so he sat back on his mattress, giving Sam a small wave.

“Good luck, then.” The other man gave him a quick nod, and their eyes lingered on each other once again, before he clambered up the steep stairs (which probably should be considered a ladder) and disappeared into the outside world. Bucky laid back onto his mattress, staring at the ceiling. He prayed that sleep would come, but they were idle thoughts; maybe the steel walls blocked more than sound. 

\- - - - -

John Walker was just as imposing of a figure as his picture had made him to be. Roughly three inches taller than Sam, it felt as if Walker was towering over him, somehow. His grin was a little too wide, his handshake a bit too firm. 

"It's good to meet you, Sam Wilson," Walker said, his voice strong and unwavering, his eyes boring into Sam's soul. "I've heard a lot about you."

Walker hadn't let go of his hand yet, so Sam held the handshake back, staring up. "Likewise, John Walker." There was an odd glint in the other man's eyes, and then he let go, Sam's hand immediately retreating to his side. Walker sat down on one of the concrete tables populating the outdoor area of the building, and Sam followed suit, slowly and carefully. 

"So, I was told you wanted to speak with me?" Walker asked, his back strangely erect as he leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. It was an odd position for a man like him; it almost resembled an excited child waiting for a present to be handed to them. On Walker, it looked like the start of a horror movie. It almost caused Sam to forget that a question had been asked of him.    


"Oh," he let out, trying not to physically shake himself. "Yes, I just wanted to make sure that your transition to Captain America is as seamless as possible."

The grin that Walker gave was nothing but predatory, the side of his mouth curling up in a way that usually would be attributed to a snarl, but it wasn't. His teeth glinted in the light, startling white. "That's nice of you, Mr. Wilson," he said, almost murmuring, but his voice was too strong for that. "No hard feelings, then?"

"None at all," Sam replied back, his face as blank as possible. Walker leaned back, only slightly, moving his arm so that the back of his hand rested just under his chin. He looked back up at Sam, and if he didn't know any better, he would have thought that the look in the other man's eyes was laughter. 

"Really?" 

"Not towards you," Sam amended. He had to give something to get something, so Sam decided that honesty, while not always the best policy, might serve him some good. 

"Yes, that makes sense," Walker said, his hand brushing against the stubble of his growing beard.  _ He'd probably have to get that under control if he wants to be Captain America,  _ Sam thought idly, the thought a comfort in his head. "Must have been quite a shock, Mr. Wilson."

Sam let himself laugh at that, a small chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. "You have no idea."

"Oh, I'm sure I don't." Somehow, it didn't come off as comforting as it probably was meant to sound. Walker didn't seem like a comforting person, in general. "What a twisted world we live in, don't you think?" The man tilted his head to the side, a gesture that was exaggeratedly robotic, his eyes meeting Sam’s once again.

And then Sam saw it.    


It was a small circle, pressed right underneath Walker's left ear, barely visible. It was just like the new age communicators that Sharon had been talking about, sometime during their car ride. A chill went up Sam’s spine as he weighed the possibilities. Someone was most likely talking to Walker. 

The reason as to why was lost on Sam, though. He played back his entire conversation until now in his head; he hadn't said anything incriminating, as far as he was concerned. So what was the purpose of feeding Walker lines? And who was feeding Walker lines? Sam had a guess, but he didn't want to linger on the line between reality and imagination. 

"It's definitely messed up," he murmured, his words calculated. Walker leaned forward again, and Sam didn't back up, staring at him still. 

"You don't ever think that it's just worth giving up?" Walker whispered conspiratorially, the same crooked grin playing across his face as if he was talking to an old friend about opening up another pack of drinks, and not leaving the entire world to rot.    


"No." Sam’s answer was simple, but it didn't soothe the greedy look in Walker's eyes, as if he wanted more of an answer. Sam wasn't happy to oblige, but he did so anyway. "Giving up is a privilege. Giving up means you can just step out of the conflict because it never involved you in the first place." Walker’s expression was no less intense, but a new emotion had found its home there, and Sam wasn't sure what it was. "I don't think that works for me," he finished slowly, stating what seemed so obvious to him but might not have been obvious to the other man.

Silence, uncomfortable and humid, cloaked the conversation. Walker at least seemed like he was thinking about what Sam had said. If he had to guess, though, Sam would say that his words had the opposite effect on the other man, who finally said, "I respect you for that."

Sam didn't miss a beat. "Do you?"

"The world doesn't deserve any of us, Mr. Wilson." The tone of Walker’s voice, the serious nature of it, crawled up Sam’s back like a multitude of small, venomous spiders. It was the sincerity, Sam realized, that scared him the most. It was completely John Walker, and not the opinion of the person on the other side of the earpiece. 

"I disagree." 

"Are you concerned about me, now?" And what a good question that was, one that also seemed to be genuine. Sam didn’t want to lie, but a strange wave of stubbornness, worthy of Steve Rogers and perhaps Bucky too, washed over him. So he just shrugged.    


"Not at all."

"Forgive me if I don't believe you." That damn smirk was starting to make Sam’s knuckles itch. Punching Walker wasn't on his agenda, for today at least. 

"You're forgiven." Walker's expression fell and regrouped in the same split second, although the rebuilt face seemed so much more forced, which Sam didn't think was possible. "I'm truly not concerned," he continued, quickly running his tongue over his dry lips. Walker’s mouth split into a wide smile. 

"Well, that's a relief," he chuckled, clapping his hands together. Sam flinched, barely perceivable, but the way that Walker’s sick smile reached his eyes told him that it wasn't as unnoticeable as he thought. Even more shocking was when Walker stood up suddenly, his eyes staring straight ahead, as if he had never been purposefully staring at Sam. Sam got up as well, albeit much slower.

Immediately, Walker stuck out his hand to shake it once more. “It was nice meeting you, Sam Wilson.”    


“Yeah.” He didn't want to say anything else, not trusting his words to not betray him. 

And then Walker turned around and briskly walked away. And Sam checked his phone. And cursed heavily. 

\- - - - -

Bucky didn't want to think about it. 

Currently, Sharon wasn't letting him do anything. All of his senses were screaming at him that something was happening that Bucky had to stop, but he didn't know what it was. He hated staying in the same place, desiring so desperately to do  _ something _ that would let him lose himself, and not linger on thoughts. But he was still here, slouched on the mattress. Sharon was sitting upright, now, clicking aimlessly on her tablet. At least she was doing something. 

Bucky didn't have anything else to do  _ but _ think about it. The conversation with Sam. What it meant to him and his past. 

He had wanted to tell Sam, in that moment in the car, about the events that had bandaids over his bullet holes in Hydra, about  _ Josef. _ Was it too late now, he wondered, to tell him?

Bucky didn’t miss Josef. Maybe he did, but the rest of his life at that time had been less than ideal, which definitely reflected badly on the other man. But he missed the  _ feeling _ of Josef, the passion that he brought that had been missing from his life as the Winter Soldier since it started. It all ended when Josef had been administered the serum, a rocky relationship ending in a sudden fall off of a cliff, unexpected as anything. 

He never fooled himself into thinking it was a relationship born of love. It was a relationship of need and desperation, and through the eyes of someone as fucked as him, it could have been seen as love, but it never was. Bucky was no stranger to sneaking around, so he didn't lie to himself about that either, about it being the possible reason that it didn't work out. 

Josef probably never tried to love Bucky, and that might have been it. Bucky wasn't offended about it; it was understandable. Only an idiot would look for love in places where it serves only to be crushed. 

He hadn't thought of the man in a while, and yet, after years of Josef being an afterthought in his mind, he wondered whether he should tell Sam.

Not wondered, actually. Bucky  _ wanted  _ to tell Sam, and how unsettling that was to him. Bucky never really saw purpose in telling people that he liked men; he hadn't even told Steve. The only reason he would reveal it is if he was interested 

“Carter,” he said suddenly, surprising himself as well as her. She looked down at him as he sat up enough to rest on his elbows, and shock lingered in her eyes, surprised by the display of relaxation from Bucky. It didn't last long though, as Bucky sat up straight, feeling more at ease in an upright position. 

“Do you need something?” She replied, setting her tablet facedown on her mattress. Bucky flexed his metal fingers, the joints smooth and flawless. He often forgot that it was vibranium now, no longer the heavy metal that creaked and rattled and had to be fixed much too often. 

“It's a weird question.” He paused, recollecting his thoughts. “Actually, it might not even be a question, but…” 

“Well, we've got nothing but time,” Sharon said. “I mean, at least until Sam gets back.” 

Bucky weighed the pros and cons of talking to Sharon. Although the consequences were probably worse, still he persisted. “Are people more open about the relationships that they're in nowadays?” He tried not to let his hesitancy creep into his voice, but his efforts were futile. Sharon lifted an eyebrow. 

“Is this about Sam?” Bucky nodded. “Do you have a problem with Sam?” He shook his head violently. 

“No, not at all,” he responded hurriedly, but Sharon didn't look even slightly convinced. Bucky sighed, realizing that this wasn't going to be a conversation that he would escape unscathed.

“I wanted to tell him something?” He tried, his voice lilting upwards at the end of his sentence, unsure of himself. Sharon picked up on it immediately, a vulture circling for the weak. 

“That doesn't really sound like a statement,” she said bluntly, laying one hand over the other in her lap in a calculated movement.    


“I-” Bucky stopped, breathing in. He steeled himself, before speaking, “In my time as the Winter Soldier, I had a… partner. A male one.” Boyfriend seemed too casual, like a girl talking about her prom date, and what else was there? Husband? That was even worse. Sharon's mouth twitched slightly at his statement, not because she found it humorous, but because there was something to be found in Bucky's execution of the statement. 

“I see,” she replied, and then her face betrayed a more obvious smile, a coy expression. “And what does that have to do with Sam?” Bucky felt heat rise to his cheeks, but still, he tried to keep himself from denying anything too strongly, fearing it would have the opposite effect. 

“No. No no no.” He was surprised to find that a smile erupted onto his face, and Sharon seemed to match his emotion as well. He sat up a little straighter, scooting a little closer to the woman. “I haven't had this type of conversation with anyone in a while, and I don't plan to.”

“I think it's great,” Sharon answered, and at Bucky's confused face, she explained, “That you're opening up to people. Me, specifically.” 

“Yeah, I guess. It's difficult, though,” he added swiftly, “Don't expect this from me ever again.” Sharon laughed at that, a clear sound that echoed off of the walls, and Bucky found himself smiling again, at that.    


“I wouldn't dream of it,” she chuckled, before leaning closer. “So you were asking me something?”   


“Right. I just don't want Sam to think that I don't like him.” Sharon couldn't smile any wider if she tried, and Bucky backtracked so quickly that he almost got mental whiplash. “I mean, like him as in his character. As in I support him wholeheartedly, because I too am like him, but it's not deeper than that-” 

“Okay, okay,” Sharon said, cutting him off. “Sam is pretty much a therapist. He'd probably appreciate you being more straightforward and just coming out with it,” she continued, before grinning and adding, “Pardon the puns.” 

“Uh huh.” He didn't want to smile again. He smiled anyway. 

“I have to ask, though,” Sharon started, and Bucky didn't like the curious and flirty look in her eyes. “What is the purpose of you telling him?” She pitched her voice low in a whisper. “What are you hoping to gain?”    


Bucky didn't roll his eyes, because that would be immature. However, he definitely felt like doing it. “Not what you think, probably.” Sharon didn't believe him at all. “No, I just don't want him to think I'm judging him, because I realize I'm from another time, and I don't think that I made it clear that I supported him.” 

“That makes sense.” The way she said it made it sound like it didn't make sense. It was fine. Bucky acknowledged that she was just trying to placate him. “You know, Sam only came out to me a few weeks after I told him I was bisexual.”

“Oh.” Bucky really had to work on his responses to people telling him important things. Sharon didn't seem to mind, didn't seem to notice even, just continuing on. 

“First, he told me that he supported me all the time, no matter what,” she stated, as if just listing off the ingredients on a grocery list. 

“I see,” Bucky replied, his words just serving as an indicator that he was following along, somewhat. 

“So, you could always just tell him that you support him unconditionally.”

“Yes.” 

“Then why are you so intent on coming out?” Bucky didn't want to answer that.    


“I'm not going to answer that.” And he said as much, but Sharon had anticipated his walls going up. She leaned back, all too casual, and shrugged. 

“You don't have to answer me. But maybe answer yourself.” 

Bucky didn't know what Sharon wanted from him. Theoretically, he did; she was heavily implying that Bucky wanted something romantic when it came to Sam, but she was wrong. He had gone so long without friends that he barely remembered how to talk to people normally, so he was making the effort. That was all it was. 

Maybe, if he had talked longer with Sharon, he might have realized something else. Their conversation was ended, though, by the bang of the trap door opening. Bucky had slipped a knife out before relaxing as Sam dropped through the ceiling. He had relaxed too soon, it seemed, just based off of Sam's panicked expression. The other man took in Sharon and Bucky's poses, not at all battle ready, with horror.

"Did you not get the message?" Sam said, his voice rising, mostly referring to Sharon and her tablet. Sharon shook her head, going to flip the tablet over, but it was useless, as Sam filled in the blank.

"Zemo's escaped." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Not gonna lie, writing this much dialogue takes a lot out of me, but it seems like the romance is hopefully starting to develop.


	7. we'll be looking for sunlight (or the headlights)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The car woke up slowly, and Sam wanted to apologize to it, for dragging it around the East Coast. The wheels rolled as if every first step was painful, but they soon built up momentum. Sam's hands were gripped tightly around the wheel, as if it was going to fly away from him (and given Bucky's history, maybe it was). He forced his eyes to stare ahead, but the chuckle from the seat next to him threw all of his thoughts into the trash.  
> "I knew it was going to be weird between us, but I didn't know you were going to pretend I don't exist," Bucky murmured slyly, and Sam hated that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Halsey's "Roman Holiday"

Sharon let them take the car, at least. 

It wasn't much of a surprise to Sam that she wasn't coming with them. Given that the Raft was where Zemo had been kept, there was apparently some things to be done up there; at least, that was what Sharon said. She gave Bucky a look that Sam couldn't quite read, though, which caused Bucky to move up next to her and whisper something to her. He wasn't a supersoldier, so Sam was only able to catch a "better not be the reason-" from Bucky and a "No, I really have to go-" from Sharon.

Which meant no sense to him. Sam hated that feeling. 

He swung open the door to the driver's seat, sliding in before Bucky could mention that he would gladly drive. It wasn't that Sam loathed being in the same car as Bucky at this point; it could be worse, but Sharon had taken Alpine with her to drop her off at some safe place. It was just that there was an atmosphere of awkward energy, given their last conversation. 

Bucky clambered into the passenger's seat, his broad shoulders brushing against basically everything as he settled comfortably in his seat. His blue eyes flicked over to him, but Sam was already turning away, feeling oddly embarrassed for watching the other man. 

The car woke up slowly, and Sam wanted to apologize to it, for dragging it around the East Coast. The wheels rolled as if every first step was painful, but they soon built up momentum. Sam's hands were gripped tightly around the wheel, as if it was going to fly away from him (and given Bucky's history, maybe it was). He forced his eyes to stare ahead, but the chuckle from the seat next to him threw all of his thoughts into the trash. 

"I knew it was going to be weird between us, but I didn't know you were going to pretend I don't exist," Bucky murmured slyly, and Sam hated that. He didn't know when Bucky had regained his casual nature of talking, and even though he should appreciate that the other man was getting better, it wasn't helping his situation. 

"I'm not doing that," Sam muttered back, the tone of his voice betraying his blatant lie. 

"Oh you're not?" The smile in his voice was beyond infuriating. 

"Not at all, Barnes." 

"And here I thought we were on first name basis," Bucky replied, and Sam slammed his hand against the top of the wheel. It wasn't very loud, but Sam still regretted it, unable to look into Bucky’s eyes in the fear that he had shaken the other man. 

"Are you going to harass me this whole car ride?" He continued anyway, hoping to gloss over his short outburst. 

"Me? Never." Bucky’s casual way of speech soothed Sam’s fears, but only for a moment before his irrational anger arrived once more. More than that, he was confused at the manner of nonchalance that Bucky had donned; he hadn't been doing it before, and while it didn't seem all too forced, it was out of nowhere. 

"Bucky, I appreciate you trying to ease the tension or whatever but," Sam said, still pondering his words as they came out of his mouth, "It's really not a joke." He turned to look at Bucky then, catching the downward twist of his lips as he leaned back further into the passenger's seat. 

"I understand." His voice was low and serious, so different from the game he had been playing just a few seconds prior. 

"Do you?" Sam asked, not unkindly. He wasn't trying to spite the other man at all, and he didn't want to reflect that in his tone. Bucky shifted in his seat, the squeak of the springs underneath him giving away his discomfort. 

"I do, actually." Sam stayed quiet, assuming by the questioning way Bucky had ended his sentence that he had more to say, he just didn't want to say it. His body language said as much, and it was almost funny watching a man as broad and muscled as Bucky trying to hide himself against the cushion of a car much too small for him. "Sharon told me I should just tell you that I support you instead of saying what I am planning to say, but I've never listened to someone's advice ever in my life." He laughed slightly after speaking, reminiscing about memories that Sam would probably never know. 

"Oh?" The singular word was just to reel Bucky back into the present; Sam was a naturally curious person, after all. 

"The reason that I didn't know how to react is that I'm not used to openness?" Bucky finally said, his eyes meeting Sam's. His expression was so full of vulnerability and honesty that Sam did not want to look. There should have been no difference between Bucky and the people who came to see Sam at the VA; they all had that same look, and yet Sam was perfectly comfortable discussing with them. _It's only because I know him personally,_ Sam told himself, before realizing that Bucky had opened his mouth up to speak, again. 

"I had a male partner during my time at Hydra, and obviously, I couldn't live openly anywhere, much less there.” 

And Sam definitely did not know what to say to that. It shouldn't have been such a shock to him. Of course, Bucky’s reaction to Sam’s coming out had seemed to be one of discomfort and maybe mistrust, but beyond that, it almost made sense. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so… it was just surprising to me?” Bucky ran his tongue over his lips nervously after he spoke, as if to soothe the quiver in his voice, keeping the rest of his insecurities at bay. Sam had seen that expression on so many people. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Sam said sincerely, his right hand leaving the wheel to graze over Bucky’s left hand, which was resting on the panel between the seats. The steel ring on his hand made a small ringing noise when it came into contact with the metal, and while Sam knew Bucky was aware of the ring, he asked no questions. Sam appreciated that. 

“Sharon said you would appreciate honesty.” 

“Was that what you guys were talking about before we left?” Sam asked, a half-joke even though he was sort of curious. A soft smile rose to Bucky’s lips as he gave Sam a coy look. 

“Maybe.” 

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky turned to face him, as much as he could, as the words left Sam’s mouth. Luckily, Bucky didn't give him the smart answer of “you already did,” which Sam took as a small win.

“It really depends on what it is, but yeah, go ahead,” Bucky replied, toying with his belt, rotating it slightly as he lifted himself off the seat momentarily. He was only trying to find a better position, but it still made Sam’s cheeks burn. He refused to back down, even if his question was more invasive than anything. 

“Did you love Steve?” The question lingered in the air, a heavy fog of tension settling between them once again. The only thing that comforted Sam’s anxiety was the fact that Bucky was taking the question seriously, instead of opening the door and rolling unceremoniously out of the car. 

“I think I did. Not near the end, but I think I did,” he repeated, as if saying a prayer to himself. Sam wasn't surprised by the statement, though the idea that Bucky hadn't love Steve up until the end was slightly harder to wrap his head around. 

“Really?”

Bucky didn't seem offended by Sam’s doubt. “When Steve left, I wasn't hurt in a romantic way, if that makes sense.” His head leaned back against headrest, a gentle gesture that was enough to make Sam forget his history, forget both of their histories, and believe that they were just two men. His long hair glowed in the light of the sun, half covered by the trees surrounding the road, making patterns of shade on his skin. Bucky’s eyes glowed, regardless of the lighting. “It was more about the fact that he was leaving in the first place.”

“I get it, I think,” Sam replied. 

“Did you?” The question from Bucky confused Sam immensely, and it seemed that Bucky could tell. “Love Steve,” he clarified softly, his cheek brushing against where his shoulders would go on the seat. It was such a domestic position for the Winter Soldier. 

“He was a sweet guy. And he seemed oddly flirty,” Sam added, grinning as his words brought a smile back to Bucky’s lips. The other man tipped back his head and laughed slightly, his eyes closing for a split second in what seemed like bliss, before returning to the present. 

“Yeah, he does that.” 

“But I thought he was in love with you,” Sam continued, gazing at Bucky to catch his reaction. He was simultaneously disappointed and satisfied to not catch an expression of elation or anything of that matter on Bucky’s face. 

“How does it feel to be wrong for once in your life, Sam?” Bucky murmured, less of a question and more of a… joke?

No, Bucky was teasing him. The warmth flooded back into Sam. 

“You don't know if I'm wrong,” he said defensively, turning his eyes back to the road as if that would prevent him from seeing Bucky’s smile. As if he hadn't already internalized the look on Bucky's face. 

“Honestly?” Bucky said, like an afterthought, not even a statement. “It doesn't matter anymore.” 

“Why not?” Sam shot back, wondering whether he should cool it with the questions. But again, Bucky hadn't tried to leave the car yet, which was indication enough for Sam. Bucky waved at the air aimlessly, as if swatting the invisible physical form of the inquiry right out of the air. 

“I've moved past it. We don't have the same goals anymore.” And then Bucky went quiet. Sam didn’t want to push again, but the other man’s half answers were going to be the death of him. His expression must have betrayed his train of thought, though, because Bucky continued, his tone of voice sounding as if he was just indulging Sam.

“In a perfect world, I'd like to be able to settle down, raise some kids, but…” Bucky sighed, his metal fingers clenching and unclenching as he continued. “It's hard for me to return back to that, after what's happened. And I'm not bitter about it anymore, at least not all the time. I thought that Steve was the same way, that he was going to spend the rest of his life standing up for what's right, because that's just how he was. Apparently, that was never his goal.”

Sam drove ahead a few hundred feet, navigating the path which had suddenly branched out into twists and turns. The conversation was not forgotten in those few minutes, though, and Sam finally asked, “What's your goal?” 

Bucky had expected it, prepared for it even, if his snarky tone was any evidence at all. “Seems like I have a habit of following after dumbasses to make sure they don't die.” Sam scoffed, hoping he came off as offended; in reality, he was trying to stop himself from smiling. 

“Fuck you, I am a very safe person,” Sam retorted, his teeth flashing as he tried and failed to hold in his grin. Bucky had no interest in subtlety, and laughed openly. No matter how many times he heard it, Sam would always be stunned by the uninhibited display of happiness. 

“Are you?” The way Bucky phrased it sounded like a cat playing with his toy, batting at it as it neared the edge, hoping to push it over. It was no wonder that he and Alpine got along so well. Sam wanted so badly to hate the teasing sound of his voice. 

“Yes? When have I done something risky? It's always you!” Sam tried to keep his voice from raising, pushing it down, strangling it with the will of his therapist voice, but to no avail. 

“You know what? I don't feel like listening to the rest of this argument,” Bucky replied slyly, his overly relaxed body only proof to that. The fucker even closed his eyes, drinking in the splashes of sunlight.

Sam hated him, so much. Him and his stupidly long eyelashes. 

The road was populated with small rocks, and was no longer the asphalt of familiar paths. Even with the car rocking up and down with each bump, Bucky still kept his eyes closed. Even then, Sam could tell he was restless; his eyelids flickered slightly, his eyes still moving behind them. 

The next time Sam looked over at him, Bucky's eyes were half open, regarding him lazily under his eyelashes.

And suddenly, Sam was reminded of another man, of lazy mornings before work where he would look at him in that same way, swathed in blankets and not in his work suit, not being shot out of the sky in front of him.

It hurt to look. So Sam looked away. 

When he got the courage to gaze back at Bucky, he was turned the other way, looking out the window. It wasn't a rejection; Sam told himself that, multiple times, repeating it like a mantra. It hurt, though. 

The GPS on Sam’s phone beeped rapidly, the lack of cell signal in the area toying with it. It brought Bucky’s attention away from the window, though. 

“You know,” Bucky said, glaring at the GPS like it was his archnemesis. “I'm not really sure what the point of driving up to New York is. We could have caught a flight,” he continued, jokingly, before catching Sam’s annoyed glare. “Okay, okay, but why is Zemo going to be there? 

“Because villains always attack New York City?” Now it was Sam’s turn to be on the receiving end of an unimpressed look. He amended his statement. “It's a big enough city, there are a lot of Avengers related things up there, and I'm not really sure where else to look.” Bucky huffed, something in between a sigh and a sharp laugh. 

“I probably should have brought this up when we started driving, huh?” 

“Yeah, you really should have,” Sam said back, irritation creeping into his voice easier than before. He forced his breaths to slow, counting backwards in his head, before speaking again. “Also, there's really not much we can do, given how you're a criminal and I'm unemployed.”

“If there wasn't anything we could do, then we wouldn't be driving to New York.”

“Dumbass.” Bucky really was, but such was the cost of opening up to the Winter Soldier. “I mean that we can't work with the officials,” Sam clarified begrudgingly, about to open his mouth again when his phone rang weakly. 

Bucky tapped the screen a little too hard with his metal finger for Sam’s liking, and Sharon's face appeared, accompanied by a lot of glitching. 

“I took the liberty of tracking your phone,” Sharon started out bluntly, and with the way her video was moving, she was obviously trying to move somewhere very quickly. 

“Oh great. Hello to you too, Sharon,” Sam muttered dryly, but the woman continued as if she hadn't even heard him in the first place. The click of her heels accompanied the hasty nature of her words. 

“We haven't found Zemo. But we know where Walker is.” Bucky leaned forward at that, seeming to be as confused as Sam was. 

“Well, obviously. He's not the one who broke out of a facility,” he said, his metal arm adjusting the phone slightly on the holder that it was clipped to. Once again, Sharon ignored the snappy comment, looking around. From Sam’s view, it looked like she was trying to find a certain room- or office. She was probably searching for help. 

“Sam, do you remember the facility at Lagos?” Of course he did. He never really forgot it. 

“Yes, I do. The biohazard one?” He replied back, more for her sake than actual clarification. 

“Yes. Walker's in one of those.” Bucky's eyes narrowed. Even though he probably didn't know what the hell was going on, “biohazard” was a word he was familiar with. 

“Walker's in another continent?” Sam asked, but this time he was sincere; Bucky and Sam were in no position to drive to a whole other continent, even if it was remotely possible. Thankfully, Sharon eased his worries. 

“Nope. Judging by your location, you aren't too far off from this one, which is in America, obviously.” He wanted to ask why in the world there was a biohazard facility here, and why he was not aware of it beforehand, but he had learned long before that there would always be a multitude of dumbass things that the government did that would fuck them up in the future. “I'm sending you the location now. I'm going to try to get backup, too.” 

A notification popped up on the screen, and Bucky swiped at it while saying, “We got it, Sharon, thank you.”

“Be careful." It was a stand alone statement, but Sharon added, “I would tell you guys to wait but I know I'd waste my words.”

“You're correct about that.” Bucky chuckled slightly at Sam’s statement, and then Sharon hung up abruptly. Silence took over as Bucky carefully pasted the coordinates into GPS, the combination of clicks and muffled taps alerting him of what hand Bucky was using. The man clipped the phone back onto its holder, sitting back into his seat. The only difference was that Bucky's back was now straight, his posture corrected as his fingers danced on his thigh, over the concealed knife that Sam knew was there. 

“You ready?” Sam asked lightly, trying to ease the mood. Bucky smiled slightly, but it didn't reach his eyes as he rolled his shoulders back, discomfort evident. 

“Can't be that hard,” Bucky said, managing his facade of cockiness and confidence with the tired look in his eyes. The trees waved goodbye to them as Sam took the next turn, into a more barren field where the dancing of the tall grass seemed less like that of a wedding and more like how one would dance with someone knowing they were going to leave them. Bucky's small chuckle was a welcome surprise, as he looked at Sam. 

“He doesn't have the serum, right?” And Sam laughed at that too. It was comforting to know that even in the face of death, Bucky would continue to be a dumbass. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how this chapter was, because it is sort of a transition chapter? It was odd for me to write, at least. Hope you guys enjoy! Thank you so much for the support so far!


	8. why you wanna play with me (you know i'm undefeated)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wanted to laugh at the situation.   
>  Outside of the facility, dark and grey but somehow still modern, was a similar looking dead field, in which Sam had carefully parked the car which Bucky was now leaning against, waiting for Sam to finish putting on his suit. They had driven to a site that had to be somewhat toxic, some dumbass with a shield inside, and Sam was changing in the backseat.  
> The hilarity was astounding. So was the sheer weight of the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Megan Thee Stallion's "B.I.T.C.H."

Bucky wanted to laugh at the situation. 

Outside of the facility, dark and grey but somehow still modern, was a similar looking dead field, in which Sam had carefully parked the car which Bucky was now leaning against, waiting for Sam to finish putting on his suit. They had driven to a site that had to be somewhat toxic, some dumbass with a shield inside, and Sam was changing in the backseat.

The hilarity was astounding. So was the sheer weight of the situation. 

At least with the intruder agent in the first safehouse, it had been something that dropped into his hands, a fly in a spider's web. Walking into someone else's territory, while it was something Bucky should be used to, sent shivers up his spine. The car door shut as quietly as possible behind him, still a loud sound in his trained ears, and Sam was there, his wings slightly extended behind him. His goggles were still on his head, and it was adorable. Bucky wanted to say as much, but he didn't. 

It didn't matter how handsome he found Sam Wilson. Not now, in the face of an inevitable fight, and not ever. 

"Ready?" Sam murmured, his hand brushing against Bucky's flesh one. He didn't flinch at that, a silent victory that he would carry around. 

"Always," he replied under his breath. 

And it was the truth, even if it was the furthest from what he desired. He wasn't a fool, at least in the ways that mattered; Bucky never tried to convince himself that a peaceful life was in his future. He had to make do with his past. Running never helped him for long, only delaying the pain. He followed people. Steve was his first, and then maybe Hydra counted. Or maybe he should specify Josef, and not the whole of Hydra. Because Hydra forced him. And now Sam.

Sam had never asked him, but he was here. And he was going to stay. 

The facility didn't have doors. On second thought, maybe it used to. There were large rectangular pieces of metal on the floor behind the entrance, roughly the size of doors that would fit the way in. Maybe they used to be doors, but now they were just decor for the ground, serving a purpose that they weren't built to serve. Someone had knocked them down using excessive force.

Sam stepped over them easily.

There wasn't much light. The sun was dipping down below the mountains, the dying rays stretching as far as they could into the empty hallways. 

"These places don't usually have workers and shit?" Bucky asked quietly, and Sam didn't respond, just turning to make brief eye contact with Bucky as a way of reassuring him that he was heard. He brushed up closer to Sam as the other man shuddered at a random sound, hoping to provide comfort even if he had none for himself. Sam didn't move away, but maybe he couldn't even feel Bucky through the Falcon suit anyway. 

Which Sam had, by the way. He had jokingly told Bucky that he had kept it through his days of being a criminal with Steve, so he could definitely manage to keep it while the government is on his ass. The joke had fallen flat, but Bucky had laughed anyway. 

The door at the end of the hallway, the only one that was ajar, glowed slightly, as if there was light behind it. It was obviously the door that they had to go through, but Bucky didn't like it. 

He focused. Beyond the door, he could hear footsteps. One pair of feet, heavy-footed, and every half a minute, there was a small clang that Bucky was sure Sam should be able to hear.

"What is that?" Sam confirmed his theory just seconds after. Bucky kept his voice low, his footsteps soft, even though he was sure that the other person was aware of them.

"Someone throwing something," he replied back, before adding, "Probably a shield."

_ The  _ shield, he should have said, but Sam understood. 

"So it's Walker?" It seemed like Sam was talking more to himself than Bucky, but he nodded anyway, and Sam did not slow his speed, did not falter as he continued towards the door, flinging it open with a recklessness that was worthy of Steve Rogers himself.

And they were met with artificial lights that weren't quite blinding, more broken than anything. 

The lights were high up in the wide room. It was big, bigger than the training room in the Avengers Compound, meant to be a factory. A few bodies littered the ground like leaves in winter, the stark white floor like snow. At the far end of the room, the clangs got louder and more frequent, and a man was in fact throwing a shield. Based on Sam's expression, it was Walker. He was already facing the two of them, even being as far away from them as he was. 

"Ready?" Bucky said, not expecting an answer.

"Yeah, Buck." And that was  _ thrilling. _ Sam didn't even look like he knew what he had said, fixated on Walker as the man took his time walking over to them. Did he even realize that he had shortened Bucky's name? 

A sexuality crisis was not appropriate for the situation that they were in, but of course, he wasn't the one making cute nicknames two seconds before a battle. Not two seconds, actually, given that Walker was not stressed about time whatsoever. 

"What's the move, Cap?" Bucky muttered, and yes, he wasn't above cute nicknames, apparently. Sam's mouth twitched.

"Talking." Bucky didn't have enough time to discuss with Sam how bad of an idea that was, even when Walker was obviously letting them do whatever they wanted. 

As the man walked closer, Bucky scanned him. He walked unevenly, leaning to the left side. It made sense, given that he was wearing the shield on his left arm; he wasn't as practiced as he seemed. The shield-throwing he had been doing might not have been completely meant as an intimidation tactic. His outfit closely resembled the old Cap outfit for the war; it wasn't the real one obviously, because Bucky had shot through that one on the helicarrier. 

"Took you guys long enough to find me," Walker boomed, his voice echoing in the empty facility.

"If this dude tries to give us a speech I'll leave," Sam hissed under his breath, and Bucky was inclined to agree with him, until Walker held up his right hand. 

Clenched in his fist was a vial, maybe four inches long, hosting ugly yellow liquid, filled to the brim. It didn't take a biologist to figure out what he was holding. 

"Walker, we can talk about this," Sam said, wings unfurling out behind him, the metal panels scraping against each other as they extended. The other man didn't move as Sam advanced closer to him, Bucky walking a few steps behind. 

_ Three guns, four knives, _ Bucky recited in his head, his metal hand grazing his holster. Walker must have been more of a novice than he originally thought, as the man's eyes didn't even catch the movement Bucky had made. Instead, Walker laughed coldly, his eyes trained on Sam. 

"Do you even know what this is?" He yelled, the shield dipping low and scratching the floor momentarily before Walker hoisted it higher. Its surface gleamed, the paint as bright as ever. They must have redone it before giving it to Walker, painstakingly colored in every circle without knowing what it would ultimately be used for. 

"We can guess," Sam said, still proceeding forward without slowly. "Walker, Zemo is using you."  
"You don't know anything. You know that much at least, right?" The tone of the rogue agent's voice seemed almost playful or coy, more like a child who knows a secret and less like a murderer. 

"We really don't know what you're doing. But we're going to stop you," Sam added, determination seeping into his voice as he stepped closer. This time, Walker stiffened, holding the biohazard vial off to the side, wielding the shield in a defensive position in front of him. 

"If you come any closer, I'll drop this." The wild, unhinged look in his eyes made Sam stop. 

"He won't," Bucky muttered to Sam, and Walker's stare snapped to Bucky immediately, unflinching and unfeeling. The contrast of his dead eyes with his smile which carried the remnants of warmth, long forgotten, was all too obvious. 

"Would you like to test that theory, Mr. Barnes?"   


"There's no one else here. It would be a waste," Bucky replied back, his fingers wrapped securely around the handle of his gun. 

"You're here," came the cool and collected response. And Walker did look oddly relaxed, suddenly, leaning on his left foot which was slightly behind him. The shield was held the same way one would hold a bag, a purse, dangling from their arm like a side piece. 

"That'd be a waste too, though, right?" Bucky shot back, the gun slipping out of his holster as he slowly retracted it.    


"What's your game plan, Walker?" Sam asked. Walker's eyes glimmered with unhinged excitement.

His knuckles unfurled slightly, a motion that Bucky picked up on instantly, darting in front of Sam as the vial started to slip. 

"Sam, move!" Bucky yelled to the other man. Sam took Bucky's instruction as an order to move forward instead, and as Bucky dove for the vial, Sam aimed higher up, the engines in his suit roaring to life as he charged Walker. 

His metal arm scraped against the floor, a harsh sound echoing off the tiles as his fingers wrapped around the vial with a softer _clink._ Above him, Walker grunted, the choked off noise a direct result of Sam bowling into him with the force of his suit. Bucky exhaled sharply as he realized that the vial was secure in his grasp, panic dissolving in relief for a brief moment as he tucked it into his pocket. 

A very,  _ very _ brief moment. 

Too soon, Bucky was yanked back into the reality of the situation, at the same moment that Sam slammed Walker into the opposite wall. With the amount of blunt force applied to Walker, he should have broken a couple of bones and maybe his spine, but as Sam drew back momentarily, he stood back on his feet like nothing had happened. 

Cold dread entered Bucky. He was aware that Zemo knew a great deal about Hydra, and why shouldn't he? So many of its secrets had been divulged during the fall of SHIELD. He knew that some of those secrets had to be about him as the Winter Soldier. With that came the paranoia that Hydra's experiments with the supersoldier serum had warranted attention from unsavory groups. He had set that fear to the side until now, given that Hydra had worked on it (and him) for decades, and it would be a miracle if someone was able to replicate it by themselves. 

But Hydra had created other Winter Soldiers. They had injected them with the same serum, and their veins had felt the same cold sting that his did. And that had been easier than his slow and gruesome fall into the serum, so why was it such a far-fetched idea that someone could have gained access to whatever remained? 

Especially someone like Zemo, who seemed to get his hands on everything mildly Bucky-related, would have a high chance of finding it. 

Walker reached for the shield, which had slipped out of his grasp for a split second. His grip unsteady, he chucked it at Sam, who dodged as the shield whirred past him. It ricocheted off the back wall, only barely missing Bucky as it made its way back to Walker. As it returned to its unrightful owner, Sam flew back at Walker, swerving away only as the other man blindly swung the shield out. 

Bucky took his opportunity and lunged, the shield having left Walker unbalanced for a few seconds. His knife held his hand like an old friend, more normal and welcome than any other item. He jabbed upwards, towards the flimsier material that covered the area under the other man's right arm. Walker's mouth opened to release a screeching sound as Bucky scored his mark, the softness of flesh making contact with the harshness of a knife's edge. 

The enraged man swatted as quickly as he could with the shield, grazing Bucky near his lower shoulder. Once again, the momentum was too much for Walker, and he stumbled to the side. Sam swooped around to greet him, bowling into his side once more, violently shoving him in the opposite direction. 

The shield clattered to the ground, painted surface against the ground. As if on instinct, Sam changed directions, wings angling as to avoid the walls that were suddenly all too close, and reached a hand out, curling his fingers around the brace of the shield. His wings straightened out as he landed slowly on one of the laboratory tables.

And then he turned around. And Bucky swore his heart stopped.

Bucky was never the artist. It was always Steve who had the eye of a true painter, every stroke of the pencil as meticulously thought out as any throw of the shield. Bucky had never been jealous; he had thought it was adorable, the way that Steve would look more concentrated than ever while staring down a piece of paper, worrying at his lip like he was competing with himself to see who would draw blood first. He had never wanted to draw anything in his life, as art was never for him, and he accepted that wholeheartedly. The picture in front of him, though, belonged in the Louvre, and Bucky was frustrated as hell that he would never be able to describe it to its full extent. 

On the table, only slightly above the ground but still closer to the heavens, stood Sam, metal wings framing his body like a man-made angel. The shield rested on his arm comfortably, as if it knew it was home with its rightful owner. The lights on the ceiling reflected gently off the vibranium surface onto Sam’s face, the underside of his jaw painted painstakingly with soft reds and blues. He wondered whether Walker saw it too, the ease at which Sam carried the shield so different from how any other person had. 

Bucky didn't have time to check Walker's expression though, as Sam took that moment as an opportunity to fling the shield towards Walker, catching him right in the center of his chest and sending him back into the wall. The shield bounced back out, not exactly at the correct angle to sail back to Sam. Instead, Bucky caught it, the solid surface reminding him of the things it had seen back in the war, the things he had seen. 

He shoved the shield back into Walker, gluing him to the wall once more as Sam picked it up again. Even though Sam was most likely preparing to throw the shield again, Bucky moved forward, knife in hand again, and aimed for the thigh. He was only able to graze the side of Walker's leg, the knife repelled by the solid (probably serum-supported) muscle, before Walker let out ayell and slapped blindly towards Bucky, barely missing him. A rush of air caressed his ear, and the shield appeared in Bucky's line of sight soon after, hitting Walker right under the arm which Bucky had originally stabbed. 

The other man fell to his knees, and in a synchronized, fluid motion, both Sam and Bucky lunged for him. 

Bucky was closer, and upon contact, he flipped around the man, his metal arm coming up underneath Walker's neck while his right hand wielded the knife. Sam took another route and slid out a gun.

"Are you serious?" Bucky asked, his voice rising steadily at the sight of the new weapon Sam had pulled out.    


"No, don't worry, it's not a-" Sam started, having gotten the wrong idea about why Bucky's tone had gotten so loud.    


"If I knew I could have used a gun instead, I would have!" He interrupted, Walker's gurgling noises underneath his arm the least of his concerns. Sam sighed, standing as if he was just having a normal conversation and that they didn't just take down someone who most likely was injected with supersoldier serum. 

"No, Bucky, this is a tranq," Sam said patiently. In any other scenario, Bucky might have felt condescended to, but he was much too distracted by the path that the sweat droplet, which had formed at Sam's temple, was taking down his cheekbone. It was riveting and weirdly attractive. 

"Oh," he responded, "Why didn't I get one?"   


"Bucky," Sam replied, exasperated. Bucky just shrugged, as much as he could while  _ still holding a violent criminal. _   


"Sorry.” He held Walker as Sam positioned the tranquilizer gun to his neck. The man tried to struggle, but Bucky flexed his arm harder. The liquid of the dart bubbled slightly as Sam lined it up, and the small  _ snick _ that occurred after he pulled the trigger paired with Walker going limp in his hands let Bucky know that the tranq had been administered.

Bucky let go and Walker slumped to the ground, only for Sam to gather him up. Bucky marveled at Sam’s arms flexing under his suit, even through the thick material. He forced his eyes to trail back up to Sam’s face.

“You got the vial?” Sam asked, hoisting Walker awkwardly at his side. Bucky nodded shortly, sliding it out of his pocket, studying it briefly. Sam leaned forward, Walker in tow, and suddenly let out a string of curses.

“What's wrong?” Bucky asked immediately, trying to hold it up more so the light would shine brighter on it.

“The one at Lagos looked much different than this one,” Sam murmured, sounding so caught up in his own thoughts that he could have been talking to himself and not Bucky. 

“They could just be different formulas.” Bucky didn’t quite see the purpose of ruminating on possible comparisons, especially since he was tired and didn't want to learn how long the tranq would last. 

“No because this one looks almost… diluted,” Sam replied distantly, staring intently at the vial. 

“Isn't that okay?” Bucky ventured hesitantly, but Sam was already shaking his head in response.    


“Well, not really. The other half had to go somewhere.” Sam was silent after that, as if waiting for it to hit Bucky. And it definitely hit him, the realization coming a little later than he preferred. 

“Well, shit,” Bucky blurted out, sticking the vial back in his pocket as he picked up the shield from the ground next to Sam. 

“Yeah.” Sam's voice seemed miles away, and Bucky so desperately wanted to bring him back to the present. 

“At least we got Walker,” Bucky said, not used to being the voice of optimism in the group. But if there was anything to get that look of stress out of Sam’s face, he would do it. It was the same face that Steve had donned many times over, the look of resignation to a life of overwhelming tasks that would never stop. Bucky had hated what that feeling had warped Steve into, and he wanted to make sure that Sam didn't fall down that same, dark path. 

“I guess so.” The tone of exhaustion remained in Sam’s voice, only feeding the fear that Bucky hadn't done enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter took a while and I'm using the excuse that I've been pretty busy the past few days, and also it's a fight scene and those are kind of hard on me. I'm going to be updating less frequently, but don't worry, I haven't given up! Thank you guys for all of your support :)


	9. sugar coated, lies unfolded (you still lick the wrapper)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is something wrong?" Sam murmured cautiously, and at that, Sharon sighed.   
>  "Not really but," she started, fully stopping so she could look at Sam. "They want to make you Captain America."   
>  Sam really wished people would give him a break, for once in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Doja Cat's "Candy"

Sam made sure to confirm that Walker wouldn't be put in the Raft. Obviously, anyone could see it would be a stupid decision, but given the government's record with keeping the Raft closed, Sam was taking no chances. He was given a dismissive reply by one of the agents who took him, but at least it was something. 

When he finally turned away from the retreating car, going to whatever secure prison existed, and towards the government building, he was met by the familiar face of Sharon, motioning for him to follow her. He moved towards the glass doors, and Sharon propped it open, waiting for him to pass through the doors before letting them close behind her. 

"So," Sam said immediately after reaching Sharon, "What's the news?"   


Sharon laughed slightly, partially tilting her head to look at him as they walked deeper into the hallway. There wasn't much activity going on at the hour; some people passed them, but they were so engrossed in their next destination that they didn't even notice Sam. 

"You did good," she replied, and now it was Sam's turn to laugh.

"I just brought in someone who probably put supersoldier serum in his cereal for breakfast. I sure hope I did good," he shot back, shoving his hands into his pockets. When he finally looked back at Sharon, she was staring at him with a distant expression, her stride slowly down to a slow walk. 

"Is something wrong?" Sam murmured cautiously, and at that, Sharon sighed.   
"Not really but," she started, fully stopping so she could look at Sam. "They want to make you Captain America." 

Sam really wished people would give him a break, for once in his life. 

"Um," was all Sam could manage to say, and Sharon just nodded understandingly. 

"I know," she replied, "It feels wrong."   


"It is wrong," he muttered back, before adding, "Because  _ they're  _ wrong." 

"Want to explain it to me?" Sharon asked softly, and Sam appreciated what she was trying to do, getting him to talk about his feelings. He did it all the time back at the VA. 

"They're only going back on it because they know they fucked up," he said, rocking his weight back and forth from his left leg to his right. Sharon crossed her arms, more like she was cold than angry, causing her neat black suit to crinkle at the arm seams. 

"That's true," she said simply, offering no other comments. Sam appreciated that as well, knowing that she was encouraging him to keep talking, her responses serving only to tell him that she was listening. 

"They're just using me, because they don't know who they can trust," he continued, feeling anger and irritation boil up in his stomach. 

"Also true."    


"As soon as they find someone like me who doesn't  _ look _ like me, I'm gone, aren't I?" He questioned. It was more of a rhetorical statement, seeing as he didn't need anybody else to answer that for him. He knew the answer, deep in his heart, as much as it pained him to say it. It was true. 

"Probably," Sharon stated bluntly, but not without feeling. From the look in her eyes, Sam could tell that she was attempting to put herself in his shoes, to see it from his point of view, and was somewhat succeeding. 

"This always happens to me," he burst out, before immediately lowering his voice. It wasn't Sharon's fault at all, and he also didn't want to make a scene. Another person walked past them, towards the door where they had come through. Sharon stared at Sam patiently, waiting for him to continue, and so he did. "I always have to exceed expectations in order to be considered for the same thing that average people are contenders for."    


"I'm sorry." Sharon was sincere with her words, but Sam chose to not address that. He sighed, his posture giving way to an unenergized slump.    


"It is what it is, at this point. I shouldn't expect anything different," he murmured, more to himself than Sharon. She could tell that it wasn't meant for her as well.    


A buzzing sound came from her back pocket, and she slipped out her phone, checking it briefly before shoving it back into her pants. 

"Listen Sam, I would tell you to take your time with this, but I'm honestly not sure how much you have," she said, chewing on the side of her lip distractedly. Her legs started to move, just barely, as if she was preparing to take off at any moment. Suddenly, her face lit up, and the corner of her mouth tilted up as she added, "If you need someone to talk to, I'm pretty sure Barnes is lurking around somewhere."

Sam almost choked, his throat betraying him. "I wasn't aware he was allowed in here," he replied back carefully, nervous about what Sharon would say if she noticed his issue. 

"Oh, he's definitely not, but that's never stopped him before," she said, her voice too cheerful. Sam scoffed, digging his hands further into his pockets, clenching them in a fist. 

"I shouldn't have expected anything less.” 

Sharon smiled brightly, and Sam felt a bolt of suspicion enter his brain. There was nothing particularly malicious behind her gaze, but it did look as if she was hiding something from him. "I'll see you later, then," she chirped, taking out her phone again to look at something as she started to walk past him. 

"Of course, Sharon. And thank you so much," he added, and she grinned at him again as she passed by. 

"He's in one of the office rooms, I think,” she threw back at him. Sam couldn't see her expression, as her back was turned to him and she was now roughly ten feet away, but he could feel the aura of smugness emanating from her. “The new ones, number… 324, I believe." 

"Thank you," he said, loudly, and she raised a hand briefly to signal that she had heard him. Even after she turned the corner, Sam could still hear the clicking of her heels against the floor. 

Room 324. It must be one of the rooms on the third floor, where there had been the most reconstruction. It wasn't like those floors were restricted, so Sam should be able to take the elevator, but most people didn't go up there. 

He found himself in the elevator anyway, where there was a lovely sign, newly installed, which indicated which rooms were on which floor (and room 324 was actually on the fourth floor). The elevator buttons glowed as the lift smoothly progressed upwards, slowly down without any jarring breaks as it neared the fourth floor. The elevator doors opened up, leading into a bright hallway, wide windows on either end of it, doors lining the sides. 

Rooms 332, 330, 328, and 326 finally led to the room Sam was looking for, and he slipped his hand around the knob, twisting it gently as he entered. He was greeted by the sight of Bucky, who was sitting at the one desk shoved to the side of the room. This room was also very bright, given the location of the big windows to the far side of the room. The natural light shone brilliantly onto Bucky's face, his blue eyes looking less cold in the sun. Even more stunning was how relaxed Bucky was. He wasn't slumped in his chair, but he was allowing the backrest of the chair to support him slightly. A small, content smile played on his lips. 

It was way more attractive to Sam than it should have been. Especially with the fact that Bucky had his hair tied back. It was a little too much for him to handle.

"It's nice up here," Bucky murmured softly, his metal hand tapping on the desk. The rhythm was peaceful, a callback to another time, maybe before the war, where there had been no cares in his life. Sam wondered if Bucky had ever learned how to play the piano; his slender fingers would have been well suited for it. 

"It is," Sam replied, equally quiet. He was afraid that the volume of his tone would dispel the peace of the room.

"Wouldn't be such a bad place to work," Bucky said, his eyes flicking to Sam’s with a knowing look. Well, at least Sam wouldn't have to do any explaining, as it was apparent that Bucky had already learned about it, one way or another. 

"It definitely wouldn't, but given that I wouldn't be working here regardless of my choice," he replied, keeping eye contact with Bucky, "Doesn't really matter, does it?"   


"I guess not," Bucky said, his fingers stopping their previous movement in favor of lying flat on the table. "Still, it's a sweet thought."

"Why are you here?" Sam tried to lean casually against the wall next to the door, but his body felt too stiff for it. Instead, he crossed his arms.    


"I got a new apartment. Kinda shitty, but it's better than the one in Brooklyn, you know?" The little smile returned onto Bucky's face. Sam would never stop being astonished at how relaxed the expression made his face seem. "I was dropping Alpine off there."

"So this was on your way back?" Sam said, his voice coy and playful. He shook himself mentally; he didn't want to play that game with Bucky, even if it was fun and even if Bucky was somewhat attractive. 

"Nah," Bucky replied, lifting his flesh hand to flatten some of the strands of hair that had freed themselves from the chains of the hair tie. He then threw yet  _ another _ flirty grin Sam’s way (it was definitely flirting). "But you knew that."   


"So?" 

"I'm here for you." It was Bucky’s simple statement that broke Sam’s heart, the sincerity of it ringing through loud and clear. Even if Sam’s first instinct was to believe that everybody was against him, the honesty was much too certain.    


"Well, do you have any insight on what I'm supposed to do? I'm fairly sure you're already filled in on everything, with the way that you get your hands on every bit of information," he added pointedly, and Bucky tipped his head back to let out a laugh. It wasn't as unforced as it had been the last few times, but Sam appreciated it; there wasn't much else to glean joy from. 

"The situation is shit, to be honest," Bucky said. He stood up, hands braced against the table, and walked around the far side of the desk. His pace was leisurely, as if they weren't about to discuss Sam's job crisis. 

"Yeah, I'm well past that," he said, before adding, with much less snark, "What do you think I should do?"

"I want to know what you think you're going to do," Bucky said, his voice even. He was now face to face with Sam, leaning slightly against the desk. Sam didn't back off or step forward, even though his body was screaming at him to move  _ somewhere _ . He wanted to yell at Bucky, to ask him if he would just continue to deflect questions. He didn't, though, choosing to consider the question instead. 

"I'm thinking of taking it. Of becoming Captain America," Sam clarified, watching Bucky’s face carefully for any sign of movement. His expression didn't change, a stone wall that was as impenetrable as his heart. Saying it out loud solidified it for Sam; truth be told, he was only really considering it now that he was in front of Bucky.    


"I see," he stated, still staring at Sam.    


"You don't agree.” It would have been a question, but regardless of how good Bucky’s poker face was, Sam was good at inferring certain things. Bucky just shrugged, the gesture getting more and more infuriating by the second.    


"It doesn't matter if I don't agree."    


"See, I think you're really missing the point of advice. I'm  _ asking you _ to tell me your opinion," Sam finally said, taking the smallest step forward. The movement didn't escape Bucky’s eyes, as they flicked downward briefly before coming up to rest on Sam’s face once more. 

"Then no, I don't think you should do it," and at least this was progress, Bucky telling Sam what he really felt. 

"Now tell me why," Sam said, trying to shove Bucky in the correct direction. It didn't look like Bucky needed too much prompting, though. 

"It won't be good for you," Bucky stated, his voice not wavering at all. It seemed like he had time to think of this, as if he had assumed Sam would be thinking of accepting the job. Bucky continued, "Captain America is this figurehead for everything that is good in everyone's life. They're a figurehead for everybody." 

"And you don't think I'm moral," Sam said, his voice flat. 

"Quite the opposite. I'd be extremely irritated if they hadn't been considering you for the role," Bucky spoke, not even hesitating over Sam’s dig. "Being Captain America changes you, though."

"Obviously," Sam muttered, but Bucky continued as if he hadn’t heard him, when he most definitely did. 

"In a bad way,” Bucky confirmed, making a step towards Sam. Even though Sam wanted to step back, he stood his ground. "You're held to standards that no person should be held up to. When you make a mistake, no one is willing to look past it. Think about the Avengers," Bucky added, and Sam was struck by the feeling of how different it was to be on the receiving end of a lecture. "From what it seemed like, if Steve's attitude ever wavered, if he suddenly couldn't keep up with his morality, it was held against him. Suddenly, he was the villain." 

"I see." Sam, along with Bucky, for that matter, didn't know too much about the main Avengers’ conflicts with each other, but he could see what they meant, based off his own personal experiences. He knew that Steve wasn't perfect, because he hadn't been too interested in the stories of Captain America. Other people, though, who were brought up on those stories? It must have been odd for them to figure out that Steve Rogers was a person. 

"And you know what kind of corrupt stuff happens in government buildings. Steve knew too. That's why whatever happened with the Avengers happened, and Steve left the group," Bucky stated, and Sam finally interjected with a solid point.    


"He left because of you.” After a few seconds, Sam added, “Because he wanted to keep you away from prison.” 

Bucky looked contemplative, which was good; it meant that he wasn't going to flat out reject Sam's thought process. "You still believe that?" 

"I do." 

"Huh," Bucky huffed out, legitimately stumped. He finally waved his hand, as if discarding that train of thought. "I guess it doesn't matter, then. Steve, before taking on the shield, always was vocal about people who bullshitted him, which included the government. He continued to do that, didn't he? Fall of SHIELD and all that shit?"

"I guess he did," Sam conceded, but not without questioning Bucky with, "What's the point of all this?" 

"I'm saying, Sam, that you can't trust it. Is the timing not at all weird to you?” Bucky suddenly mentioned, switching up the trajectory of the conversation as his eyes started to lose their warmth. 

“That I just brought in Walker?" Sam said uneasily, not comfortable with where the conversation was heading. "Not really, seeing as he took the job from me, and since I brought him in, I would be the next possible candidate.”

“Really? You think Walker was the only one who was considered for the role of Cap?” 

“Bucky, you're not understanding me.” The exasperation was clear in Sam's voice. He forced himself to keep his tone steady as he laid it out to Bucky. “I brought him in. That was my task that proved that I was worthy.”

“You've always been worthy, Sam,” Bucky affirmed quietly, and only when it was obvious that Sam wouldn't deign to reply he continued, “But you've done so many other things.”

“Explain what you mean because I am very confused at this point.” Sam was nothing if not honest. 

“They're afraid,” Bucky stated, as if that explained everything instead of making Sam much more confused.    


“Of people like Walker?” 

“Of people like you,” Bucky said, and he  _ had  _ to stop stepping closer, because Sam had the urge to punch his perfect lips, lips that were currently moving because he was still speaking. “The only access that you had to government info was Sharon. That's one person. One person, and you found Walker, and you brought him in, regardless of the fact that he had been turned into a supersoldier.” 

Sam didn't bother mentioning that Bucky had also helped take down Walker, because he felt as if that point would sail right over the other man's head. “So they want to harness that power?” Sam inquired. 

“They want to suppress it,” Bucky clarified, “Kind of like the… Sokovia Accords, right?” 

“Well no, that was to stop the amount of people we were killing,” Sam corrected, leaning back a little bit. 

“So the Chitauri coming to New York? They would have killed less people had the government controlled you?” Bucky said, his tone as unwavering as ever, and Sam felt the need to roll his eyes. He didn't, though; he's a grown adult. 

“Well, that's why I went with Steve.”

“That's not why you went with Steve. You just trusted his judgment,” and once again, Bucky's point was arguable, but Sam just wanted to steer them back onto the right track.

“That's not the issue, though.” 

“The issue is, Sam," Bucky started, eyebrows furrowed in the way that should have felt condescending but it was really just his way of showing concern, "That you can do the same amount of work that you could do if you were Captain America. In fact, you do more by yourself anyway.” 

Sam  _ had  _ to correct him there. “Illegally, Bucky. I do more by myself  _ illegally. _ ” 

“No harm in that,” Bucky said, and it was the tone, the way that it sounded so careless and nonchalant, that made Sam break. 

“But there is!” Sam burst out, moving towards Bucky. He could feel the other man's breath on his cheek, and only then did he realize how infrequently Bucky took breaths. He didn't linger on the thought for too long, rage still prominent in his head. “I have a family. I have a sister, a niece, a mother.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he flinched back, mirroring exactly what Bucky did. Even if the man's face was still playing the same stone cold facade, there was a hurt in his eyes that couldn't be masked. Hurt and pain, a leftover from another life. “I'm sorry,” Sam added quickly, finally stepping away. 

“It doesn't matter. You're right,” Bucky murmured quietly, and it didn't seem like he was saying that just to get back at Sam, which would have actually been better. It was as if Bucky believed it with his whole heart, and that made Sam feel even worse. 

“I shouldn't have said it like that, though,” he replied softly, trying his best to keep eye contact even though he was itching to run out of the door and back into the elevator.    


“I guess I just-” Bucky started and stopped just as quickly, but Sam was suddenly much more interested in hanging onto every piece of the conversation. 

“Hm?”

“No, it's irrelevant,” Bucky said, shaking his head. 

“Well now I'm interested.” Sam had meant it to be a joke, and he was glad Bucky had caught his drift, judging by the small smile on his face. Bucky opened his mouth slightly, as if still thinking about whether it was the right thing to say. His voice must have won over his logic. 

“You shouldn't be anybody’s second choice, you know?” Bucky finally said, moving back slightly in surprise when Sam laughed. It wasn't the laugh of a genuinely happy person; it was cold, winter winds in New York where the snow is too harsh to be pretty. “What's that for?” Bucky asked hesitantly. He didn't really want to know.    


“Come on,” Sam started, as if it was obvious, “I'm always the second choice.” 

“Not to me.” Bucky's answer was immediate. It was like it had been on his tongue for the past hour, maybe the past week, maybe since he had met Sam.    


“Really?” Sam asked incredulously. “Because it seems like it.”

It wasn't the smartest decision Sam had ever made. Especially given that he was supposed to be choosing whether or not to take on a life-altering career, talking about whatever tension had been going on between him and Bucky was less than ideal. Apparently, Bucky felt the same.    


“Are we seriously talking about this right now?” Bucky's eyes were piercing, but Sam never backed down from a challenge. 

“Yeah, Bucky, we are. You can't just look at me with that dumbass look that you do, which you probably know is attractive, given that Steve would go on and on about how you were a charmer ‘back in the day,’” Sam started, the words rolling off his tongue on their own accord, “And then consistently flirt with me in the weird way that you do where you open up to me about things and it sounds like you're expecting something?”

“I'm not expecting anything,” Bucky murmured. Sam couldn't stand to look at the immense sadness building like water at the back of a dam in his blue eyes. 

“Are you serious?” 

“Completely. I don't know what the fuck you're saying,” Bucky said, and even with how blunt his statement was, it was still layered with a level of gentleness, like dealing with a hurt child. Sam  _ detested  _ it.    


“Jesus.” And at that, he finally turned away, running away from the conversation. It was not the most mature thing ever, but sue him.    


“Sam, wait,” Bucky said, followed by a cold, metal hand on his shoulder. Thankfully, Bucky almost immediately retracted it so Sam didn't have to slap it off. Bucky waited till Sam turned to look at him before continuing. “I'm not saying that I don't do those things. Yes, I look at you because I think you're cool to look at.”

Sam, against his own will, laughed slightly at that. “Smooth.” He forced his face back into a grim persona. 

“Sam, come on," and now Bucky was talking as if it was something obvious, softening his voice further, "Of course I like you.”

Sam hated that the most. The complete vulnerability, where Sam felt like a complete asshole if he didn't mentally acknowledge Bucky's growth, that came out every time he talked to him shouldn't surprise him so much every time, especially since he was basically goading Bucky into telling him. Maybe he just hadn't expected the confession, instead expecting Bucky to tell him that it was all a game. That would have hurt less, Sam knew. 

“I don't have time for this,” he mumbled, less confident in his words now. 

“I didn't bring it up,” Bucky pointed out, “I'm telling you this so that you don't go thinking that you've embarrassed yourself in front of me, or that I'm some fella who's playing with your emotions.” 

“Why would I think that? Especially since I'm not returning your affection,” Sam added, and it was a complete dick move. 

“With the way you described me, it seems like you think that's what I'm trying to do,” Bucky replied, and Sam did not want to feel more irrational than he already was. 

“I guess I do,” he said stiffly. 

“Is that really how you feel about it?” Bucky replied softly. His expression was so hurt that Sam could have cried. 

“Yes,” he said instead of begging for forgiveness for who knows what, “It is.”    


“Okay.” Bucky nodded, a sharp movement that was too robotic for Sam to be comfortable with it. “All I wanted to tell you was that you're not my second choice or whatever you've put in that thick skull of yours.”   


“Real nice, Barnes, back to the insults. That's not going to get me in bed with you either.”   


“God, what the hell is going on with you?” Bucky erupted, his voice harsh. It reminded Sam somewhat of how it had sounded when Bucky had scolded Steve, out during the battle at Wakanda. A sharp inhale sounded out from the other man, and then Bucky continued, the volume of his voice regular, even though the coldness still lingered. “You know what? It's fine. You're smart. You can make your own choice about whether or not to take it. Just trust yourself.”   


“Preaching to the choir,” Sam threw out flippantly, turning away towards the door. Bucky didn't follow him, and Sam did not feel a hand on his shoulder. Something about that was oddly disappointing to him. 

“Tell me something," Bucky called after Sam, his voluming rising. He didn't expect Sam to stop walking. "Is the reason you're pushing me away really because you think you're my second choice? Or because you don't think you deserve a second chance?” Sam bit the inside of his cheek as he opened the door. He did not want to cry. He had gone to Bucky for answers and had come out with even more questions. As the door closed, he only barely heard Bucky's last comment, even though it echoed in his head for much longer. “Forgive yourself, Sam."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. Dialogue. Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed! The comments you guys leave me literally make me so happy, so thank you so much for your support!


	10. are there some aces up your sleeve (have you no idea that you're in deep)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Something wrong?" Sam started to say before Sharon even reached him. He was surprised to elicit a sharp laugh from her.  
>  "Damn, you and Bucky are similar," she muttered, and that sent some weird shivers up Sam's back in a way it shouldn't have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Arctic Monkey's "Do I Wanna Know"

Bucky learned that Sam had taken the job from Sharon. 

It should have been understandable; of course Sam didn't want to talk to him. Bucky did get it, to some degree, but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt at all. He hadn't gone as far as to convince himself that Sam would have invited him to his appointment ceremony or whatever it was called; Bucky still wasn't allowed to go places. But maybe a quick call or voicemail, maybe even a text, would have soothed him over for a bit. 

Alpine rubbed against his shins, blissfully unaware of Bucky's crisis. Metal fingers reached down to scratch behind her white ears. She had taken more to the apartment than he had, making every nook and cranny her new afternoon napping spot, her favorite being the spot behind the television, which was currently buzzing about an upcoming baseball game. 

The buzzing of Bucky's phone was Alpine's signal to leave, darting off to another corner of the room. He didn't need to see who it was, but he checked anyway. He shouldn't have been disappointed to see that it was Sharon, either; it should have been assumed. 

"Something wrong?" He said immediately, not at all relieved of his worries when he heard a sigh from the other side of the phone.

"It's not too good. We got a hit on Zemo," Sharon said, and Bucky's back tensed. 

"Actually him this time?" He checked, and the fact that Sharon's reply came after a moment of hesitation clued him about the answer. 

"Well… maybe not," she started, before pausing again. When Sharon finally spoke, her voice wavered less. "We got a hit on the biohazard."

"I see," Bucky replied carefully. Her tone had barely fluctuated as she said it, raising no alarm bells in his mind even with the contents of her words. "You sound awfully calm about this."

Bucky could almost see her shrugging on the other side of the screen. "It's impossible for him to strike the ceremony," she explained, "There's too much security. Also, not enough people to make a big enough impact."

"There must be some pretty important people there, though." Bucky stood up in a fluid yet robotic movement, habit taking him over as he searched the nearest cabinet for his  _ things. _

"Of course, but then again, security. Don't worry about it," Sharon said, and it was meant to be soothing. Of course, Bucky wasn't quite paying attention, too busy sticking various knives into the pockets of his pants. 

"Where was the biohazard last tracked to?" He asked, crouching down to face the safe, nestled deeper in the cabinet. He muted himself briefly as to type in the code without being heard. Sharon, even without being aware of his current actions, somewhat predicted his next moves. 

"We have people going there right now. You do not have to go," she said firmly, and he nodded in response. It was only after a few seconds of silence that he realized she couldn't see the motion.    


"I just want to know," he answered, sliding the handgun out of the safe and closing it gently.    


"Bucky."

"Sharon."

Another sigh sounded from the phone, followed by Sharon's grudging explanation. "Kind of close to Capitol Hill, but more towards the river."

"Oh." Bucky slipped the gun into the holster on the inside of his thick black jacket. As he pulled the jacket closed, it lay flat, completely concealing the weapon. 

"So definitely not attacking," she clarified once more. 

"I see."

"Bucky, do not go anywhere." Her voice was not unfeeling, but it was harsh, as if it was a last ditch effort to keep him at his house. There was no way for her to know he was going, but he didn't know what else she expected. 

"I won't," he murmured back softly. The silence told him all he needed to know, so he repeated, "I won't, I swear. I know people are handling it." 

There was a clamor at the other end. It sounded somewhat like a bunch of horns warming up to play an orchestral song. "Shit, I have to go. I'll see you soon.” Sharon's words confirmed his suspicion that the ceremony would be starting soon. "Also, you have to fill me in on whatever the fuck you did to make Sam look like he's a zombie," she added quickly, and Bucky groaned, so close to slamming the phone down right then and there. 

"I didn't do shit,” he muttered, somewhat childlike. He could make out someone talking to Sharon. "Bye Sharon," he added for good measure, before hanging up. She probably thought she ended the call already, anyway. 

It was a long shot. He probably wouldn't find them anyway. It was a vague description that she had given him, but he was the Winter Soldier, for heaven’s sake. He had gotten by before just from a strand of a target’s hair. 

Even so, he didn't have the  _ resources _ that he had before. He didn't know where the fuck to start. He couldn't just set off a bomb and hope for the best; he didn't work like that anymore.

A loud sound from the television brought his attention back to the screen. It was on some random channel, currently playing a drone shot of a baseball stadium. Bucky recognized the stadium; it was quite a popular one. It was also crowded, filled to the brim with people: innocent people, close in proximity to each other. Apparently, it was hosting the “game of the year.” 

The stadium just so happened to be located between the river and Capitol Hill. 

\- - - - -

More people would be happy about getting the promotion of a lifetime, but the way Sam looked, it was as if he was losing his job all over again.

At least, that's what Sharon told him that he looked like. He wasn't quite sure how she could tell, given that he was wearing the Cap hat (which was not the best looking helmet in the world), but she was probably right.

The hat aside, the Cap suit looked… good. It was a combination of his old Falcon suit and the basic red, white, and blue. Stars and stripes adorned his wings, and he silently wondered how long it would take for the paint to peel off in the wind. Then again, the paint on the shield had gone through a lot, and it was still alright. 

The trumpets started, a ceremonious piece playing from the orchestra. He was immediately uncomfortable with the amount of people. As if on their own accord, Sam's eyes darted to the corners of the room, which were lined with guards. The only thing more impressive than the amount of security was the amount of weaponry, huge guns strapped to the back of each person like they were nothing. 

He was distracted from his perusal of the area by Sharon, who was walking up to him with enough pace to tell him that something was off. 

"Something wrong?" Sam started to say before Sharon even reached him. He was surprised to elicit a sharp laugh from her.

"Damn, you and Bucky are similar," she muttered, and  _ that  _ sent some weird shivers up Sam's back in a way it shouldn't have. "There's a hit on the biohazard, kind of close by."

"They wouldn't attack here," Sam said immediately, before focusing back on her original comment. "Also, did you tell Bucky this?"

"I did," she replied, and at Sam's glare, she continued, "There's no harm in him knowing, especially since they're not attacking. Some people have been sent to check it out." And just like that, it was like she had waved away any concerns. 

"How can you be so sure that nothing is going down?" Sam spoke carefully, each word measured out. 

"Honestly Sam? I can't be sure," Sharon said, her eyes unfocused; she was trying to look at too many places at once, as if she would be able to spot the biohazard coming through the vents. "All we can assume is that you're the target, but if that biohazard gets within the radius of this place, we will know."

"There are other ways to hurt people," Sam replied softly, receiving a tense nod from Sharon. Her phone buzzed, and she scanned it quickly.

"So you think they're going to attack?" She asked, still typing on her phone frantically. 

"I don't think killing me is Zemo's endgame," Sam started, thinking back to his past experiences. Zemo had never been a straightforward man; all of his plans seemed to jump through hoops to make things work, a confusing mess of yarn that could never be untangled. "Just with his history of pitting people against each other, it doesn't seem right." 

"So what else could it be?"   


"You said it was close by here?" Sam clarified, mapping out the area in his brain. Even so, it was hard to visualize all of the locations; he hadn't lived here for all his life, anyway. "The biohazard  is meant to target a large group of people, as it spreads really quick, correct?"   


"Yes." 

"So where is there a really large group of people today?" Sam muttered, almost to himself. It felt like a failure on his part, the way that he couldn't even think of one event going on nearby. 

"Oh shit," Sharon spat out suddenly, zooming into something on her phone. It looked like a map, but not exactly. 

"What?" Sam prompted a second after, given that Sharon didn't immediately follow up with whatever she had discovered. Her fingers moved hurriedly, doing too many things at once.    


"The stadium. There's a game today," she said as an explanation. Sam's surprise only grew; it was such a specific answer in a small amount of time, and while he didn't doubt Sharon's observation, he wondered how she could be so sure. 

"That was quick," he commented, watching as she messaged roughly five different people in the span of half a minute. She started to walk quickly to the direction of security.

"Don't thank me. It's Bucky," she said, again offering no explanation as her stride picked up speed. With the added addition of the jetpack and wings on the Cap suit, it was really not as ideal for movement on the ground, making loud jarring noises as he tried to keep up with Sharon. 

"What? How the fuck did you already tell Bucky while standing right in front of me?" He hissed, his emotions getting the better of him. Sharon's head shot up to face him, as if realizing at the moment how her statement could have been taken. 

"No, Sam, that's not what I meant," she backtracked, before sighing, making peace with the hell she was about to raise in Sam's head. "Remember how I track your guys' phones?"   


And that was probably the worst thing that Sam could have heard, his blood running cold at the clear implication of her statement. He didn't want to hear his suspicions confirmed. "Please do  _ not  _ tell me that-" he started, before Sharon interrupted his mindless plea.

"Bucky's location just pinged at the stadium," she stated, her voice lacking any sort of emotion, like she was reading pure statistics. Sam couldn't say he felt the same, a wave of emotion surging over him: anger, sadness, longing, a little more anger, and maybe something else. "I don't suppose he's feeling nostalgic over baseball?" Sharon broached carefully after Sam didn't reply. 

"Well, he got his wish," Sam said before swiveling on his foot and walking the other direction. Sharon, even though she definitely had somewhere to be, followed after him. 

"What?" Sharon was confused, and Sam couldn't blame her. He also knew he would have to get her some sort of gift basket after this, for putting up with his shit. As he headed for the door, he turned his head back to throw a statement back to her. 

"I'm not going to become Captain America today." 

\- - - - -

Over the years, Bucky had amassed a collection of many, many bad ideas of his own creation, and this one definitely met the list. His thought process was confirmed as yet another bullet flew right past his ear.

He had gotten to the stadium in record timing; his apartment, surprisingly, was close enough to the place for Bucky to run. Close enough for a supersoldier was roughly ten to fifteen miles, so he was able to get in a short warmup before arriving. 

Bucky hadn't been in a stadium for a long time. Even then, it wasn't too difficult to sneak into one of the back rooms. There was still the case of figuring out where in the stadium the biohazard would be put to maximize spread.   
Because almost all of the people were on the inside of the stadium, which didn't have a ceiling, it made more sense that whoever had the biohazard, presumably Zemo, would simply spread the biohazard to one or two people and hope it moves on from there. In a more closed environment, using the vents would have been the best bet; with this situation, it made little to no sense. Even so, the vents would be the best way for Bucky to get through the stadium without being seen. 

The game hadn't started yet. The stadium wasn't at max capacity. For fear of being found, Zemo couldn't be in the crowd. He had to be on the inside. 

Most of the rooms within the inner ring of the stadium had been empty. The locker rooms were empty as well, from what he saw from his vantage point. Bucky should have been grateful for the fact that the vents were actually quite spacious, but he had been much too distracted with the isolated nature of each room.

And he had kept going, only to find that the interior rooms were basically all vacated. 

Bucky had slipped out of the next vent; there was no point cramming himself into a glorified tunnel if he wasn't going to run into trouble yet. Also, he wasn't above knocking people out, so that was his Plan B.

He had walked along the curving hallway, empty like everything else. All of the doors were ajar. Bucky wasn't quite sure if the insides of stadiums were always this clear, but the shivers up his spine answered his question with pure conjecture. There should have at least been some maintenance workers, some team members returning to the locker rooms, anything. 

The first closed door was the one that brought him to the position he was now in. It hadn't even been locked, but Bucky had checked it due to the fact that it wasn't thrown open. It was out of pure boredom; he knew it was a locker room, so it was assumed immediately that there was someone changing inside. When nearing it, though, he had picked up a soft whisper. It resembled a British accent, the tone of voice much rougher. His brain was supplied with the memory of the people in the grocery store parking lot near the safehouse, and that seemed like such a different time, didn't it? That whisper was soon joined by a number of different voices, all sounding very similar in terms of geography. 

The shortened version of Bucky's fall from grace started with him getting back into the vent and ended with him dropping into the room from above, bringing him to his current position: being bombarded with bullets. 

Bucky felt somewhat slighted by the cards he had been dealt. His handheld was the love of his life, but he would kill to have one of those high-powered attack launchers that the agents had. He made good on his mental promise as he caught one of the agents in the thigh with a bullet, which was followed by a shot to the head. The weapon was still too far away from Bucky, though; staying loyal to his handheld was the only viable option. 

The lockers could only take so much shooting before some of the bullets would start to rain through, and Bucky didn't count on those fancy weapons to run out of bullets before then. At the small pause between attacks, he popped up, taking a shot before ducking down. By the sound of the grunt, he had hit a fleshy part of the body, most probably the arm given the trajectory of his shot. It wasn't the agent's dominant hand, but it would definitely give him a lot of trouble when it came to hoisting a gun as big as that. One more shot, and the agent was down. 

There were three agents left, and the barrage of bullets was proving to be too much for Bucky. He cursed himself with getting slow over his years of healing from Winter Soldier work; as much as he deserved a break, he also couldn't throw himself into situations without preparing himself. It was a little too late for him to figure that out, though. He made his bed, and now these agents were going to lie in it. 

There was a brief silence, flitting in the room like a bird with a broken wing, destined to fall whether or not it reached its destination. Suddenly, one of the agents appeared from around the locker. Bucky was quicker than him still, firing and hitting the man point blank in the chest. While falling, the agent tensed his hand around the trigger. Intense pain flared around Bucky's calf, engulfing the muscles that strained to keep him upright. The bullet hadn't stuck in the flesh, though, and as he looked down, he was glad to note that it had hit the outside of his lower leg and passed right through. It hurt like hell, but it could be worse.

What was worse was the fact that the other two agents were still advancing. Bucky held his handgun up, prepared to shoot again. And then he heard the distant roar of an engine.

_ This is it,  _ he thought, regret sprinting through his mind as if running between bases like the team outside.  _ If they bring a damn tank in here or some shit, I'm so fucking dead.  _

And then the door broke in, followed by a man in a very red, white, and blue suit, wings folding behind him as he landed. 

Bucky was going to kiss Sam. If Sam let him, of course. 

One of the agents ducked behind the lockers that were perpendicular to the ones that Bucky was behind, but the other agent wasn't too lucky. The mechanized guns on Sam’s wings were apparently still active, even with the addition of the Cap elements, and they came to life, two shots burying themselves in the center of the agent’s torso. 

Handheld pulled close to his thigh, Bucky moved around the lockers silently, still somewhat crouched, waiting for the last agent to make his move. 

Admittedly, he was a little surprised when the agent got up slowly, gun on the ground. Less surprised and more disappointed was how Bucky felt when the man pulled the remaining vial of biohazard.

“Stop moving. I'll drop it!” The man threatened, waving it around as if it wasn't an incredibly deadly weapon that would wipe everyone out within seconds of it colliding with a solid surface.

“Who are you and where is Zemo?” Sam asked bluntly. Bucky admired that about him, his ability to not take anybody’s shit. 

The other man apparently didn’t admire it as much, laughing slightly as if Sam’s question was the least intelligent inquiry he had heard all day. “Congratulations on your appointment, Captain,” he murmured, his voice reeking of false compliments, “I'm sure you really deserve it. Americans are always so picky about leaders.”

“Cut the condescending crap. Most of the shit you can say about our country applies to yours too,” Bucky muttered, but the man was hyper focused on Sam. 

“Who I am doesn't matter,” the man said slowly, enunciating each syllable clear and slow. Bucky could feel Sam roll his eyes in his helmet. 

“Here we go,” Sam whispered under his breath, and Bucky had to stop himself from nodding in solidarity. 

“What I stand for is far greater than any singular person,” the man continued, obviously disregarding his audience's contempt for his overexaggerated manner of speech. “Did you think Hydra was dead?” He spat out, and Sam nodded immediately. 

“Hydra died with SHIELD,” Bucky supplied, hand still tight around his weapon.    


“SHIELD was based in America, even with a British founder. There were those of us, though,” the man added, pausing for an effect that he definitely did not have. Bucky’s body was tight, suppressing the large sigh of annoyance that he knew would come out if he didn't have enough control. “Who didn't run across the sea so quickly.”

“So… you're a British version… of Hydra?” Sam said slowly. In any other situation, it would have been humorous. 

“There is no British version, no American version, no version at all. We are one, no matter the destination.” The man sounded much more rehearsed now, as if it was something drilled into his head. It was only then that Bucky took into account how  _ young  _ the man was. Not a child or teenage soldier by any means, but there was something about his outward expression that would have struck Bucky as one of a seasoned warrior. His voice, the little of his face that Bucky could see through the ski mask, even the way he stood, all contributed to factors of his youth, though. “This Zemo was merely a means to an end.”

“Similar to you for him, I'm assuming.” Sam put in dryly, angering the man once again. 

“It does not matter,” he muttered, consoling himself. His head snapped up to meet Sam’s gaze as he started to recite the age old phrase of, “Cut off one head, another shall-” 

Bucky anticipated Sam’s movement before it happened, seeing the small shift in the metal plates of his wings and taking into account what was going to happen. He moved forward as Sam did, in sync with him. The man's eyes widened in fear as Sam’s engines roared to life, and as his grip on the vial loosened, Bucky was there to catch it. He was much more confident in his catches, with his one-time experience, and Bucky reckoned he could rival one of those catchers out on the field. 

As he secured the vial, he looked up to see Sam pinning the man to the wall, but it was too late; Bucky could already see the telling froth bubbling at the man’s mouth. 

The man slumped on the ground, and Bucky got up quickly. 

“Damn, you have really good timing-” Bucky started, limping slightly up to Sam. He leaned more on the opposite leg just so that the bullet wound wouldn't show, and with the brightness of his face due to Sam's presence, he was sure he passed off the wound as just a small cut. 

“We should probably get back,” Sam interrupted, and Bucky stopped short. The coldness in Sam’s voice was uncharacteristic. Deep down, though, Bucky was all too aware of where it was coming from, the tenseness stemming from an anger that descended from a level of concern. The amount of times he had used that voice on Steve after dragging him from a new alley was countless, and being on the receiving end of that almost made him regret all the times he had yelled at Steve so much they could hear him in hell. Almost. 

A shorter explanation for his emotions was that Bucky was a fucking idiot, and Sam was going to rip him a new one for coming here alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um..... this chapter was very awkward to write. I hope you guys enjoy anyway :)


	11. i've never fallen from quite this high (falling into your ocean eyes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We need to talk," Sam finally murmured, and it felt like everything was on replay, and they were going back to the beginning once again. Bucky bit down the choked sound he wanted to make, even bit down the snarky retort about how they were already talking.  
> "I thought you said enough,” he said instead, the bite that he wished was there missing from his tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Billie Eilish's "Ocean Eyes"  
> TW: Bucky briefly mentions potential suicidal thoughts to Sam. The dialogue starts with "maybe dying," if you would like to skip that sentence.

Sam didn't fly over to Bucky's apartment after the debrief of the stadium incident. It made sense, seeing as flying around caused more of a scene than was necessary. Even so, the sound of Sam's footsteps being the first noise that Bucky heard outside his door felt like a drastic change. 

There was a gentle knock; Bucky didn't have to check who it was to know, but he checked regardless, his meter of recklessness having been depleted somewhat entirely by the earlier fiasco. _Somewhat_ entirely, of course; he was always down to get into more shit. 

Bucky opened the door, met immediately by Sam's tired face. 

"Can I come in?" Came his equally tired voice, as if he was straining to get every word out. Bucky shuffled to the side, opening the door wider. 

"'Course," he mumbled, and Sam slowly trudged past him into the apartment. Bucky's tongue chased the dryness of his lips as he nervously awaited Sam's possible judgment of his tiny apartment. It never came, obviously; Sam wasn't like that. In fact, the other man seemed to have no opinions on the room he found himself in, his eyes distracted as they panned the area out of pure habit. 

Bucky awkwardly gestured to the couch. "You should sit." 

Sam nodded slightly, making his way towards the small piece of furniture. He slowly lowered himself down onto the edge of the cushion. Perched like a bird ready to fly, that was the comparison that flashed through Bucky's mind. It was as if Sam was planning on disappearing any moment. Likewise, Bucky sat at the corner of the seat, pressing himself up against the arm of the chair as much as possible, trying to make the distance larger than it was. 

"How was the debrief?" He broached the topic gently, not sure if that was one of the things bothering Sam. A small amount of relief soothed his anxiety for a moment as Sam’s reply came out. 

"Fine. Mentioned some of the stuff 'bout the new Hydra branch. Doesn't pose as much of a threat as Zemo, even with the possible correlation between the two." The tone was dismissive, as if it wasn't a big deal, as if the group hadn't been threatening so many lives. Even so, Bucky was okay with it; he knew that Sam would never actually try to diminish a problem. 

"I see." Silence slunk between them, as obvious as if it had been laying on the pillows along with them. 

"We need to talk," Sam finally murmured, and it felt like everything was on replay, and they were going back to the beginning once again. Bucky bit down the choked sound he wanted to make, even bit down the snarky retort about how they were already talking. 

"I thought you said enough,” he said instead, the bite that he wished was there missing from his tone. Bucky stared forward, his eyes trained to the wall, tracing the marks in the plaster that patterned the dull cream color. 

"Not about that," came Sam’s reply, lacking any condescending lilt or joking intonation. Even so, Bucky felt small. "People told you about all the shit Steve pulled before and after the ice, right?" And Bucky couldn't focus on his own internal emotions, because that was quite the turnaround, in terms of the conversation. 

"Not all of it. It would help if you would give me some specifics.” It was definitely an odd question, so Bucky’s deflection was just a ploy for time. Bucky’s life was just made up of trading words for time until they ran out, and he would continue it until he died. 

"Jumping out of shit without parachutes, throwing himself in front of things, that whole thing?" Sam offered the words to Bucky, and he took them. Not the best exchange, but it was enough for Bucky to think on. 

"No one really had to tell me, I've seen it from him. It's his personality," Bucky added quickly, a small smile flickering over his face for a second, mainly out of a combination of nervousness that made his feelings bubble to the surface as quickly as they left. 

"Did you like that part of him?" Sam murmured, and Bucky's heart screamed, scratching at the cage of his ribs. It felt as if he was being corralled towards somethings, as if he was a sheep being herded into a pen. He didn't know what the pen was. 

"No," he replied, deciding that answering with honesty was the best choice, "It was admirable to some degree, but it fucked with me when we were younger. Always getting into fights." The smell of alleyways, the feel of scraped and scabbed kneecaps, was all too familiar, enveloping his mind briefly. 

"So you didn't think it was smart?"

"'Course not. I care about him." He wanted to say it in past tense, but it burnt his mouth like a lie even before the words rested on his tongue. Bucky would always care about Steve. 

"If Steve went to an area where a biohazard was about to be dropped with no backup, without telling anybody where he was going, do you think you would have been okay with that?" And there it was. Finally. At least Bucky now knew what was going on. 

"Jesus, Sam,” he said, his words like an exhale as they left his mouth, “Don't use this fucked up logic on me."

"It's a genuine question," Sam shot back.

"No, it's not. You should know this, too," Bucky said, his voice rising drastically. He turned as much as he could while still sitting on the couch, comfort damned as he met Sam’s eyes. Sam didn't back down from the challenge, tilting his chin up slightly, his eyebrows up as if he didn't think Bucky would look at him. 

"Oh? Should I?"

"Yes, Sam, you should," Bucky spat out, the words leaving a bitter taste on his tongue that reminded him of bile. "Of course I'm going to be a fucking hypocrite. It's different when it's my _fucking life_. Just don't act like you don't pull some reckless shit every time you have the chance."

"Bucky,” Sam said, much more evenly, still retaining some of his patience. His voice was softer when he spoke, “Even I wouldn't have done what you did,”

“Who was I supposed to call?”

Sam’s patience broke again. “Me, you shithead!” Matching the energy of his words, Sam stood up, the force of it making the apartment feel like it was quivering. Bucky got up after him, refusing to be on anything but equal ground. 

“Oh yeah, because we are on such good terms.” It was a low blow, but Bucky was so _tired,_ and he wanted the ringing in his head to stop _._ He needed Sam to give him a break. 

“Bucky, no matter what happens between us, I don't want you to _die_.” Sam's voice cracked, a brutal sound that shot through Bucky's heart with more speed and accuracy than any bullet that Bucky had ever handled in his years. The rawness, the vulnerability, was getting to be too much, boiling in his throat as if it was deciding whether to spill out of his eyes or mouth. Apparently, the latter was chosen. 

“I was a weapon for longer than you've been alive,” he hissed, stepping closer to Sam. There was no distance between them except for the bridge they were setting fire to gleefully. “I'm not a child, flailing around. I've done so much shit in my life,” Bucky continued, metal hand pressed to his side as his flesh hand waved around, accentuating the words he spoke. 

Sam's eyes widened, a realization coming to him in a way that startled Bucky. He wanted to move back so badly, but something kept him rooted to the ground. “Is that the reason you're doing this shit?” Sam asked. His tone was full of unadulterated _passion_ , but for what exactly, Bucky wasn't sure. “You're using this as a way of getting back at your past self? Of undoing everything that you did when you were being used?”

“When I was murdering people,” Bucky corrected harshly, his words a knife to cut through the deflection of Sam’s shield. To Sam’s credit, he didn't indulge Bucky’s self-hatred as a method of escaping from the conversation. 

“Steve didn't succeed at telling you otherwise, so I don't know why the fuck I would,” Sam chose to say instead, waving his hand dismissively. “So what? You think that after killing yourself, you're going to be able to continue redeeming yourself in what? The afterlife?”

“Maybe dying would be my redemption. Just another bad person to join the ranks of the other evil people I'd kill.” 

The words were out of Bucky’s mouth before he had the chance to steal them back. A cold that was icier than his time in Siberia hung in the air between them, thick like snow but not quite as beautiful. Sam's face was still; there was no shock, just sadness, and that was what hurt the most; the way that his handsome face was trained with these situations, and that Bucky was now one of these situations. Bucky was throwing Sam into that mindset. 

“Tell me you're not serious.” Sam's voice didn't fluctuate, betrayed no emotions, a stone cold facade that only broke when Bucky averted his gaze. In his peripheral vision, he could see the downturn in Sam’s mouth, his brown eyes screaming with the emotions he was obviously holding back. “Bucky, go to therapy.”

Bucky’s laugh sounded more like the hiccup after a sob. “You know any therapists for people who technically aren't pardoned for their war crimes?”

“I'm not fucking joking. I'll find you one,” Sam said, as serious as he claimed to be, and Bucky believed him, worst of all. 

“Maybe find yourself one in the process,” was Bucky’s flippant comment. He meant it, however dismissive it sounded, it just felt like a far cry from anything that would ever happen. It was a dream that only someone truly hurt would have. 

“Don't turn this on me _again_ ,” Sam retorted, the remnants of sadness in his eyes chased away by the uproar of anger. Bucky clenched his jaw, a prison of white encasing his tongue. 

“I'm also not kidding,” he gritted out.

“Bucky, come on.” The hurt in Sam’s voice was something he hadn't anticipated, and it hit harder than it should have. “You have to stop playing games with me.”

“There's nothing to stop,” Bucky countered quickly, “I care about you. No matter what you say, I can't change that.” The sarcastic laugh that his response pulled from Sam was the worst outcome possible. 

“I'm starting to think that whatever you have for me is purely situational,” Sam whispered under his breath, but it obviously wasn't hidden from Bucky, so he replied. 

“What the hell does that mean?”

And Sam bridged the tiny gap that was still between them, just to step slightly closer. There were slight freckles on his nose, and his eyes shone with feelings that Bucky couldn't quite read, even with how close the two men were to each other. “The reason you like me, or whatever it is you feel,” Sam spelled out slowly, voice sticky like honey and, even with the content of his words, just as sweet to Bucky’s ears. “Is only because I'm dangerous and you have a hero complex that you can see from space that makes you want to die doing good because you've lived doing bad.”

“What the fuck.” There was nothing else for Bucky to say at the moment, other than go back to bartering for time so he could wrap his brain around that mindfuck of a statement. 

“You want to tell me that I'm wrong?”

“Yeah, I fucking do,” Bucky threw back. Fuck it, he couldn’t always wait for rationality before speaking. “You think I don't know how to separate attraction from my own personal goals and desires or whatever you're getting at?”

“It sure seems like that,” Sam murmured, and Bucky was struck by the sudden urge to grab Sam’s face and tell him every single secret that he's ever had, bear every thought and memory out to him. 

“Every time I think we've had this conversation,” he whispered, holding back his breath for the fear that it would touch Sam’s skin. “You really think this little of me?”

“I think the world of you, Bucky.” And damn him for making Bucky’s heart beat faster than it was allowed. “That's why I don't think you're right about me.” 

Bucky willed his pulse to slow, the beat finding a home on his temple and his wrist and even on his thigh, next to the bullet wound that he had only just wrapped. Still afraid to breathe too hard, as if Sam would blow away with the movement, he chose his next words carefully, from a library of books on a shelf, struggling to reach for some of them. 

“I can't convince you otherwise,” he said, fighting his own lungs to keep everything together. He needed to keep his words wrapped up like a pretty present, but it was so hard when Sam kept trying to open it too early. “But you're wrong about me. You're so fucking wrong about me that I don't even want to know what gave you this misguided notion that after fighting for seventy or eighty years that I would _willingly_ seek out more of that lifestyle without having a _reason._ ” His breaths were ragged at the end of his statement, and holding it together had apparently gone _so well_ for him. 

“You know what? I'm sorry,” Sam replied back, and Bucky never ceased to be surprised by the level of sincerity that Sam displayed, always. Especially in response to what Bucky had said; maybe Sam didn't understand it, but Bucky got the impression that the other man was trying. “I was wrong about part of it. And I'm sorry about that.” 

Bucky would have been an idiot to think that that was it, and he didn't allow himself that mistake, pushing down any possible shock when Sam continued, leaning even closer to Bucky. “But here's the truth, Bucky,” Sam added, teeth clenched, eyes shining just a little too wet, “You only like me because I'm the first man you've met in the state of mind that you are in now, in the time that you are in now, that likes guys. I am the _bare minimum_ to you. You _think_ you like me because of what I represent.” 

The floor wasn't steady enough for this. Bucky wanted to reach out for the couch for stability, he wanted to fall onto the damn table, but instead he stretched forward, blindly, as Sam turned away. Even through Bucky’s slightly blurry line of sight, he could make out the telltale glistening of Sam’s cheek, betraying the effect that the man’s words had on himself. Bucky’s grasp made contact with Sam's arm for a brief second, but it was shaken off. Bucky wasn't stupid enough to try again. He summoned up the last of his words, an elegy for the conversation, from wherever they were residing in his gut. 

“ _You're_ the bare minimum to _me_ ?” Bucky cried out, synchronized with the screech of the door opening. “Sam, you're so heartbreakingly _good_ and I’ve been a murderer before you were born.” Sam stopped moving out the door, turning his head slightly, as if his very character was compelling him to argue. Bucky continued, “Every room you walk into, you bring light into their hearts. I didn't even want to talk to any fucking person after all that shit. I broke your damn _steering wheeling_ the first time you met me, and you still dragged me around and tolerated me.” 

Bucky huffed out a broken laugh. “Please, Sam.” He didn't know what he was begging for; forgiveness might have been an obvious one, but his mind was so damn clouded. The view of the other man, framed by the light of the day and the doorframe, was burned in Bucky's brain, along with his parting words.

“I'm sorry, Bucky. That I keep doing this to you, that I keep bringing this up,” and then he stepped through the door, turning back fully one last time, so Bucky could fully see the hurt and pain that he had caused. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” 

\- - - - -

He didn't know how he got to his bed from the doorway. He didn't know how long he had been standing at the doorway after Sam left. 

At least Bucky was aware of the fact that he had been in bed for more than an hour. Obviously, no sleep was involved; it was just a mindless period of time, staring at the wall as if the wall would change, as if his situation would change. 

There was a weight near his feet which left an imprint in his bed, gentle and light. A few seconds later, and the imprint moved up more, closer to Bucky’s face. It didn't take the white fur appearing in his vision just a moment later for Bucky to figure out who it was.

“Hey, hon,” he murmured, lifting his head slightly so he could scratch behind her ears. “I fed you already, didn't I?” 

She looked down at him, as if to wonder why he was talking to her when she couldn't say shit back. Slowly, he maneuvered himself so he could sit up straight without spooking Alpine, and he succeeded; in fact, she climbed into his lap, curling up into a ball. He went back to stroking her fur.   
“I made a huge mistake,” he spoke softly, and Alpine purred in agreement. “I shouldn't have stressed Sam out like that, huh?” 

She made no other sounds, but Bucky continued to talk to her. It was somewhat therapeutic. 

“God, Alpine, I fucked it all up again,” he said, and her tail flicked, a response if he ever saw one. “I just wanted to let him know. Just wanted to tell him something, I don't know.” Alpine lifted her head slightly, staring into Bucky with such strength that, if he didn't already know what cats were like, he’d think it was some sort of recognition. 

Whatever Alpine had been trying to convey with her eyes was cut off, though, as Bucky’s phone rang with a passion. Again, Bucky felt no need to check on who it was.

“What's happening, Sharon?” He said before he had even held the phone up to his ear, panic swelling in his chest. The masculine sigh on the other side of the phone was not what he expected, and he checked the contact again. He had to hold back the scream he was about to unleash.

“I'm sorry,” came Sam’s tired voice out of the phone. Bucky was already out of bed by the last syllable, throwing on his boots. 

“What's wrong?” He hissed into the phone.

“How quickly can you come to the location I texted you?” 

“Two minutes,” Bucky replied without hesitation, even before checking the texts. Just as a precaution, he checked it. “Maybe three,” he amended, shoving a few more weapons into his jacket, and he was out the door. “Where are you?”

The second sigh filled Bucky with dread. “I'm already here.” A few seconds later, and Bucky’s heart crept into his throat with Sam’s next statement. “And so is he.” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID YOU GUYS SEE THE TRAILER??? IT LITERALLY LOOKS AMAZING AND I'M LIVING FOR THE BANTER!!! You should come talk to me about it on my tumblr, which I recently made. My handle is jayjay547. Alsoooooo on another note, I went back and changed all of Alpine's pronouns to she/her, because it was bothering me. Hope y'all enjoy this chapter!


	12. if i wasn't number one (they wouldn't come for my place)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was pretty obvious why Sam was already at the location; the address that he sent Bucky turned out to be an apartment building. Sam's apartment building, to be precise. If the crowds of people rushing away from the complex while smoke drifted its way to the sky was any indication, there was some shit going down inside. Naturally, Bucky had to run towards it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Megan Thee Stallion's "Money Good"  
> TW: Suicidal content. Nothing actually happens, though. If you want to skip it, the line starts with "He was met with the sight of Zemo"

It was pretty obvious why Sam was already at the location; the address that he sent Bucky turned out to be an apartment building. Sam's apartment building, to be precise. If the crowds of people rushing away from the complex while smoke drifted its way to the sky was any indication, there was some shit going down inside. Naturally, Bucky had to run towards it. 

Even though he was moving in the opposite direction of everyone else, he met little to no resistance as he charged through the entrance to the building. Almost all of the people had already cleared out, a few stragglers running out of the elevator, and who knows why they took the elevator in the first place, to make their way out. Bucky threw open the heavy door to the rusting metal staircase. He didn't know Sam's floor number, but he was sure he would be able to hear it. 

The thin panels of metal screeched underneath his combat boots as he clambered upwards, the sound of grunts and gunshots and utter chaos growing louder in his ears as he ascended quickly. The door labeled with the large "3" on it was most obviously the door to Sam's floor, or at least the floor that the fighting had progressed to, judging by the cacophony of shit and bullets going on behind it. 

He burst through the door shoulder first, denting the metal for sure, stumbling into the hallway where the fight had progressed to. The vague shape of a man wearing wings being thrown from one room into the other told Bucky all he needed to know about the current situation. The group of men that streamed out of the room in all black outfits definitely added a bit more intrigue, though.

Two of them noticed him right away, breaking off from the rest of their group in a movement that was so robotic that Bucky had to do a double take. He didn't wait for the men to reach him, with their synchronized stomps in identical combat boots. Bucky rushed forward, moving slightly diagonal as to tackle the man to the left first. 

His knife slipped into his hand, and a quick jab to the offender's shin followed by a harsh shove was enough for one of the men to fall over. The other man was taken care of in a similar fashion, but this one was slightly louder, drawing the attention of several other men. Those who saw him weren't given the time to fully take in Bucky's entrance, as Sam came flying back through the wall, taking at least three of the men with him as he shoved through another unbroken part of the wall. 

The three remaining men who hadn't been taken into the other room by Sam were comically torn on who to attack. Their inner conflicts were solved fairly quickly, as one of them broke off from the others to run towards Sam, and the other two advanced towards Bucky. These two were slightly smarter than the other pair that Bucky had beaten, as they moved in sync, both of them coming for him at the same time. They also pulled out their guns, which was a drastic difference from the previous two. 

Bucky's leg pulsed with phantom pain (and some actual pain) as his calf seemed to remember the shot that had pierced it earlier. The men in front of him, like the men on the ground, were wearing outfits and carrying weapons similar to the offshoot of Hydra from the stadium. His theory was confirmed when one of the men spoke. 

"How nice of you to grace us finally with your presence, Mr. Barnes," the man said, his accent obvious as he raised his gun to shoot. Leaping forward, Bucky ducked underneath the raised arm, bringing his hands to the man's shoulder and elbow respectively to swing him off his balance. The other man brought up his gun just as fast, but just as his finger found its home on the trigger, Bucky yanked the man in his grasp back the other way. The sudden movement was apparently the only inspiration needed for the other man to clench down on the trigger, shooting the man in Bucky's hands right in the fleshy part of the shoulder. 

The man screeched, and Bucky shoved him blindly into the other, sending both of them tumbling down. Pulling out his own gun, he gave the unharmed man a matching gunshot wound before proceeding down the hall. 

The rubble that had fallen as a result of Sam's suit flying through the wall was impressively large, given that the entire ceiling hadn't come down as well. Bucky stepped over the mess gracefully, into the room where Sam was currently maneuvering as well as he could in his suit. 

"Need some help?" Bucky yelled over the sound of a missed gunshot from the opposing agents, returning a shot of his own which caught one man in the side. Even amidst the chaos, Bucky could make out Sam's chuckle. 

"I'm sure a hand would be appreciated," Sam shot back, one of the mechanized guns on his suit pointing towards another man and taking him down.

"Is a metal one okay?" Bucky replied, and while the joke was awful as all hell, Sam's resounding laugh made it worth it. One of the remaining men aimed a headshot at Bucky, but he dodged out of the way, Sam taking out that man as well. The last man in the room soon joined his coworkers on the floor. 

"That was a stupid joke," Sam pointed out, even though it was quite obvious already. There was a lightness to his voice that Bucky had missed, even though it had only been gone for a short period of time. Even with the grim nature of their surroundings, the bodies on the floor serving as more proof that they would never be able to live in peace, Bucky was hyper focused on Sam. 

"Sam," he started suddenly, and Sam turned to face him, his wings relaxing slightly as they went to tuck themselves back into their resting position. Bucky had so many words dancing on his tongue, tying knots and making it impossible for him to speak. As he went to open his mouth again, he was immediately distracted by distant sounds of feet thumping. "I hear more people coming from above us," he warned instead, and through Sam's goggles, Bucky swore he could make out some sense of disappointment. 

"Let's move the battle to them, then," Sam replied steadily, clambering over the rubble of the walls. "I'm not so fond of this scenery anymore." 

Bucky agreed with him wholeheartedly; the room they were in looked like it was two seconds away from collapsing on itself, the load-bearing beams having splits down the middle that looked to be a mile wide. The two of them jogged down the hallway, the metal panels in Sam's wings having great criticism for the action, if the sounds of them scraping against each other were anything to go by. 

"Is Zemo here?" Bucky asked. It was an important question, but it was the last thing on Bucky's mind. Coincidentally, it was also the only  _ rational  _ question on Bucky's mind. 

"I'm not sure," Sam replied back, and Bucky ran through all of his memories of when Sam called, replaying the fear in his head. 

"I thought you told me he was here," he said. It wasn't an attack, more of a measured analysis. 

"Because I thought he was!" Sam answered. His voice echoed through the tall room that held the stairs, only beaten in volume by the loud thumps of Sam's footsteps followed by Bucky's lighter ones. Even though his voice was raised, Bucky didn't take it as a defensive tone as Sam continued, "One of those Hydra guys was wearing a purple mask, and the voice behind it sounded like Zemo's. When I took the mask off, though, the voice stopped, and it was just the Hydra guy."

Bucky's mind reeled with the information. "Was it a recording?"

"No, he was responding to everything I was saying," Sam muttered, as if he was also trying to figure out the reasoning behind what had happened. 

"Does that mean he's close by?" Bucky pressed further as Sam opened the door to the fifth floor, before closing it promptly. He could have told Sam that there was no one behind the door, but his mind was too scattered. He was losing his nerve, and he didn't know whether it was because his assassin days were over or because of his proximity to Sam.    


"Maybe, but also, we don't know if he's limited to only short-range devices. All they would need is something like a tiny phone or a hearing device with a speaker," Sam replied. Bucky yanked out his phone, glad to see that it hadn't been damaged, pressing Sharon's name in his contacts out of sheer habit.

"Where are you?" Came Sharon's question immediately, and Bucky anticipated it easily, already answered by the time she finished her question.    


"Sam's apartment complex. Bunch of those Hydra agents that we dealt with before. Do you think you can find Zemo?" He answered with similar pace, tapping Sam's shoulder. Sam's eyes flicked to Bucky's, and Bucky just pointed a metal finger up towards the door to the seventh floor. It was the top floor, and the supersoldier could hear a group of people behind it.    


"I'll get some people on it and call you back right away. Do you guys need backup?" Sharon asked urgently. For a few seconds, the echoes of Bucky and Sam's footsteps were the only answers available to Sharon as they neared the seventh floor. Bucky focused on the patterns of sound that the men made outside the door. From the low voices and the subtle shuffling, it sounded like they were organizing themselves. 

"It might be too late for backup. Thank you anyway, Sharon,” Bucky added quickly. Sharon sighed through the phone, but it didn't fool Bucky into presuming laziness; he could hear movement on the other side of the line.    


"Do you have an earpiece in?" She asked tiredly, and he huffed a laugh.    


"I do not have one."

"Calling people in the middle of missions isn't the best habit," Sharon shot back, and while Bucky already knew that, he also knew she was saying it out of concern for him, which he appreciated. 

"Once we get out of this, I will be sure to get one,” he replied, the low beep of the call ending letting him know that Sharon wasn't fooled by empty promises. More likely, she was helping to locate Zemo, but Bucky didn't have time to think it over as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. Sam's hand was already on the handle of the door, and with a small nod to Bucky, he opened it quickly. 

This group of agents didn't look prepared whatsoever, but Bucky had to give it to them for their sharp recovery. One of them raised their gun up to shoot, pulling the trigger in the same fraction of a second, but the wings of Sam’s suit unfurled, one of the shielding Bucky as the bullet that was meant for him ricocheted off. Bucky's response was to give Sam a look that was filled with such unbridled appreciation that it was impossible to miss, but the other man didn't notice it anyway, moving forward to take on the rest of the men. 

At least one person was thinking rationally. 

While Sam had drifted to the right of the hallway, Bucky moved to the left, gun in one hand and knife in the other, as a precaution. As roughly half of the agents stormed towards him, he met them with equal ferocity, if not more so. Grunts of pain and sounds of bullets hitting flesh and wall melded together in an orchestra that Bucky was too accustomed to. His knife met the thigh of an agent while his gun positioned itself over the shoulder of the stabbed man, shooting into the person progressing towards Bucky. 

Sam was doing just as well, if not better. Bucky had to remind himself not to get distracted, but it was proving to be more and more difficult every time his gaze went to Sam. The other man moved so perfectly in the suit, as if it had been molded to his body, and maybe it was. The wings were a perfect extension of Sam, and if Bucky had only had the smallest idea of who Sam was, he would have thought that the wings grew out from under Sam’s skin. 

As the last two people on his side of the group came at him, he felt a buzzing in his pocket, and he groaned out loud. After solidly punching one of the agents in the apple of his throat, a move that sent the man back reeling, choking for air, Bucky slipped the phone out, clumsily sheathing his knife in the process. He pressed the answer button on the phone, kicking the other man who was advancing steadily.

“Sharon?” Bucky yelled loudly as a response, muting himself right after that to deliver a shot at the man that he had throat-punched. 

“He's in the next building,” Sharon said back, matching Bucky’s volume as if he wouldn't have been able to hear her from a few rooms over if necessary. The exhilaration that sparked in him from the singular statement resulted in him kicking the last man hard enough to send him flying. He finished him off with a shot as well, turning to see with no small amount of satisfaction that Sam had also finished off the remainder of the men. He unmuted the phone as Sam leaned forward. 

“Which building?” Sam asked, his breathing rough. A warmth filled Bucky’s cheeks, and he willed it to not show, knowing the redness of his face would be all too obvious.

“Directly across the street from you,” she replied, light tapping sounds indicating that she was typing something with no small amount of speed. Bucky was about to speak, but he shut himself up as the line crackled, Sharon’s voice piping up again. “There is a unit on the way to corner him, and I'm with them right now. I think we will make it to the bottom floors in time.”

“We gotta get over there, though,” Sam murmured, before darting towards the stairs again. Bucky moved with him on instinct. 

“Thank you again, Sharon. I'll call you back when everything is over,” he muttered, before correcting himself, “Actually, I guess I'll see you there.” Sharon made a noise of assent followed by the engines of a car roaring on the other side of the line. She hung up. 

Bucky’s stress over the entire situation deepened as Sam started to ascend the stairway instead of descend. “Where are you going?” He asked, still following after him like a lost dog. 

“We are closer to the top of the building than the bottom,” Sam said, as if that was an adequate answer. 

“So?” Sensing where the conversation was going, Bucky carefully said, “Not all of us have wings, you know.”

“I am aware,” Sam answered back dryly, “I'll just fly you over there.”

Bucky stopped walking in a movement that was so abrupt that Sam stopped with him. “I can't,” Bucky gritted out, looking up to meet Sam’s gaze. The other man had turned around to face him, and Bucky was suddenly so much more aware of how stupid he looked. He was wasting time, and Zemo was probably escaping. He brushed past Sam, taking the lead as he stomped up the stairs, trying to ignore the burn of embarrassment that had taken over his face.

“Hey, it's okay,” Sam tried, reaching forward to grab Bucky’s shoulder, coming up a bit too short. Bucky's strides up the stairs were more closely related to a quick jog. “What's wrong?”

“It doesn't matter. We can just get over there quickly. It's fine,” he said briskly, reaching the door labeled quite obviously with “ROOF.” He went to open it, and Sam’s hand covered his on the doorknob, sending a shock through Bucky. 

“Is it the flying?” Sam asked gently, and even with the soft grasp that Sam had on him, Bucky still opened the door, immediately buffeted by light winds. It was too bright outside, so different from the few wrecked hallways that were clouded with dust. He pushed himself to walk confidently to the side of the building which faced their target location. Even with his false bravado, nothing could stop his knees from buckling momentarily as he looked down at the street below.   


“Is it the heights?” Sam murmured, less of a question and more a confirmation, and Bucky wanted to curse him for reading him so obviously again. 

“Yeah,” Bucky managed to get out, his throat completely dry.

“I won't drop you,” the man said, gently wrapping his hand around Bucky's elbow. “But it might be a little awkward,” Sam added jokingly, and Bucky forced out a chuckle, for Sam’s benefit at least. 

“Oh really?” He wanted his voice to come out charming, flirtatious, but it sounded more like the squeak of a child who wanted to be assured that their first day of school would be great. Far down below, the cars echoing Bucky's concerns back to him. 

“You need to hold onto me,” Sam said quietly, before adding for good measure, “Right now, so that we don’t miss him.” 

It should have been embarrassing how quickly Bucky wrapped his arms around Sam's midsection, but there was some satisfaction to be had over the fact that the other man made a small, choked noise at the movement. Bucky might have smiled if he wasn't shivering. 

“Alright, I'm going,” was all Sam said before he took a step forward with Bucky, wings extending outwards. And then Bucky felt the air hitting him, and he felt Sam’s arms around him, and he also felt enough fear that he was sure he was going to implode. The wind battered his ears and hair as he buried his face into Sam’s suit, which was as uncomfortable as it sounded, more or less. 

And then his feet were on the ground, and he let go immediately, stumbling away from Sam in a movement that could have been dangerous if Sam hadn’t anticipated Bucky’s reaction and landed them on the center of the building's rooftop. He planted his feet firmly into the ground, head swimming. He shook himself; there was no time for this. Bucky’s eyes leapt to Sam’s face, and the other man looked as if he was going to ask whether Bucky was okay. 

“Let's go,” Bucky croaked out, unwilling to hear whatever Sam had to say as he steered himself towards the only door on the roof. The solid lock on it stood no chance, as Bucky mindlessly pulled out his gun and shot at the hinge. 

“Bucky,” Sam started as he followed him down the staircase. 

“I’m fine now, Sam,” he replied back, intentionally softening his voice. And he really was fine in regards to his fear of heights; that wasn't what bothered him. His mind was clouded, his thoughts of their mission and Zemo clouded by the feeling of being in Sam’s arms, however quick and traumatic the experience was. 

“No, it's not about that,” Sam murmured, coming as close to Bucky as he could without taking off his head accidentally with his wings. “I wanted to say I'm sorry.”

Bucky couldn't say that he didn't see the conversation coming, but the timing was a definite surprise. “You have nothing to apologize for,” Bucky replied, shocking himself with the level of calm in his voice, the level of sincerity. “You don't have to say sorry for speaking your mind.”

“I do, though, especially when ‘speaking my mind’ translates to ‘invalidating your feelings,’” Sam said, his tone growing quieter as he took in Bucky's expressions, realizing that he was trying to hear for where Zemo was. “I just wanted to let you know that, before you disappear to wherever you will go after we recapture Zemo.”

“I won't run away from you,” Bucky said automatically, looking over his shoulder to Sam for a brief moment. It was impossible for him to keep Sam’s gaze, his heart pounding for more than one reason. “And I'm sorry too. For scaring you.”

“I get where you were coming from,” Sam muttered quietly, and Bucky only saw a split second of a change in expression before Sam grasped his arm, a gentle gesture even with the amount of vigor behind it. 

“Bucky,” Sam started, and his voice was desperate; the emotion in his tone battered at Bucky’s mental defenses like waves on a shore. Bucky was all too aware of how easy it was to get lost in Sam’s eyes, but there was nowhere else to look. “You have to know that I care for you,” Sam continued, his tone so soft that it broke Bucky’s heart. The supersoldier had to will himself to not shiver, his automatic reaction to anything even remotely surprising, and this definitely was a shock to him. 

His pulse pounded against his throat, as if it was knocking on a door that was so close to opening. “I know you do,” Bucky replied, and there was nothing he could do to stop his voice from quivering, “And I care about you too.” 

And then they stared at each other. 

“We aren't going to die, Sam,” Bucky stated carefully, this time making sure his voice was strong, unwavering, for Sam’s sake. “Whatever you need to tell me, you can tell me later.” 

“I know we won't die,” Sam replied back distantly, “But I wish I had the chance to tell that to other people. In my past. I don't want to make the same mistake again.”

And wasn't that something Bucky could relate to, wholeheartedly. His body shifted, almost on its own, to face Sam slightly. His metal arm reached forward, sliding down the length of Sam’s forearm to tangle with the other man’s fingers, just for a brief moment. “I get it,” he said, and it didn't need to be vocalized, but he said it anyway. 

Then he picked it up. The tiniest movement from the floor below. Sam must have read Bucky's face as he always does, because he gently pushed Bucky forward, motioning for him to face forward again as they quietly snuck down the stairs. The small movements were getting louder in Bucky’s ears, and it was clear that there was only one person. Bucky slipped his fingers around the handle of the door. One nod to Sam, and then he shoved the door open. 

He was met with the sight of Zemo, standing in the hallway, gun in his hand. Bucky ran forward as the gun started to turn away from him and Sam. 

“He's not using it on us!” Bucky screeched back at Sam, who was attempting to fly forward even with the limited space of the hallway. As the gun tilted to rest under Zemo's chin, Bucky took a leap of faith, tackling Zemo at full force. To the man’s credit, his grip on the gun did not waver, but the strength behind Bucky's jump was enough to alter the trajectory of the gun. It went off, and Zemo let out a gargled noise as the bullet clipped the top of his shoulder instead, going through the skin and finding its home in Bucky’s shoulder. It was a shallow wound, the velocity of the bullet having decreased drastically and the shot having been on the outside of Bucky’s shoulder as well, but it  _ stung. _ Even so, Bucky swatted the gun away, and all resistance left Zemo’s body as he wrapped his metal arm underneath the man’s chin. His flesh arm quivered, the pain flooding his system. 

The weight was lifted off of him as Sam carefully extracted Zemo from Bucky in a way that wouldn't incite more of a fight. Bucky’s vision was clouding, and he cursed himself; he had suffered much worse pain than a shoulder wound, as annoying as it was. The sound of people running up the stairs buzzed in his ears, and he heard Sam call to them, but what was said, he didn't know. People streamed into the hallway, and Sam shoved Zemo towards them. Soft hands wrapped around Bucky’s waist and flesh arm, gently enough that his shoulder wasn't any more bothered than it already was, and he turned to see Sam’s face staring at him, concerned.

“Sorry,” was his first response, but Sam was already shaking his head. Another figure raced up to him, and by her blonde hair and willingness to be near him, Bucky had to guess it was Sharon.

“I need to go,” Bucky got out, slightly shoving Sam off of him in a movement that almost made him scream as his shoulder complained over the unnecessary exertion. 

“They're already seen you, Buck,” Sam tried, but Bucky shook his head. 

“I'll be at my apartment, okay?” He soothed. “I've dealt with worse. Just come to my apartment later, okay?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” came Sam’s relieved reply, and Bucky grinned at that. His metal arm gently grasped Sam’s shoulder. 

“Make sure everything’s alright, Cap,” he murmured quietly, squeezing Sam’s shoulder. He tilted his head away, catching sight of Sharon’s smirk, and grasped her hand gently for a second as well, a silent thank you that everyone who knew her owed her. 

And then he limped towards one of the rooms, hoping there was a fire escape somewhere. He'd had enough of flying off of buildings for one day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm literally so overwhelmed with the support I've gotten for this fanfic. You guys are literally the best, and inspire me to write more often. Also, this fanfic is almost done! As you can see, it is part of a series, so I am planning on writing more within this specific canon, though they will mainly be one-shots and things similar to that. But don't worry, I'm not done with this, even after this specific project ends!


	13. when you decide you need someone (call up on me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was noon the next day when Bucky decided that he should probably leave. Coincidentally, it was an hour after that when Bucky heard faint footsteps outside his door, a pattern of walking that he recognized immediately. His body had already dragged itself to the door before Sam knocked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Chloe x Halle's "Ungodly Hour"

Bucky wasn't packing. That's what he told himself, at least, when shoving his few belongings into his one bag.

It had started out with just picking up small things around the dingy apartment and sorting them, done very slowly so as to not reopen the wound in his shoulder that he had stitched rather badly upon returning. As the hours ticked by, and Sam hadn't arrived, it started to look more like packing. Bucky wasn't petty enough to leave just because Sam hadn't shown up at his door; he saw it more like he was preparing for the inevitable. 

He had paused quite a few times while packing, though. Had thought about why he was really doing it, seeing as he would continue to follow Sam wherever the fuck the man wanted to go. Even so, Bucky had come to the conclusion that he couldn't do it from the apartment only; the permanence of the place gave him a sense of dread that he couldn't shake. So he continued to pack slowly. 

It was noon the next day when Bucky decided that he should probably leave. Coincidentally, it was an hour after that when Bucky heard faint footsteps outside his door, a pattern of walking that he recognized immediately. His body had already dragged itself to the door before Sam knocked. 

Bucky slowly opened the door to reveal Sam's face, looking much less stern than the last time he had come into the apartment. Immediately moving to the side, Bucky opened the door wider, gesturing for Sam to come inside.

"Briefing done?" Bucky asked as a way of greeting, his question short yet not unfeeling. Sam’s sharp nod was just as quick, and for a second, Bucky regretted his inquiry, hoping that it didn't set the mood of the rest of the conversation. 

"We had to do it in two parts, couldn't finish it all last night," Sam said, making his way to the couch. An odd warmth blossomed in Bucky’s chest at the comfort that Sam showed in Bucky's apartment. It was a weird feeling for something so small. "Just some paperwork and contract shit this morning." 

Bucky leaned slightly against the wall, a stance that was much less cool than it sounded. "Oh? What did that entail?" He murmured, his head tilted to the side in a comically inquisitive way. 

"Well, because of my 'exemplary actions,'" Sam said, making air quotes with his fingers as he spoke before continuing, "In the past few days, I was allowed to make more demands about my role as Cap." 

"You'd think that just taking the job means you'd get to make as many demands as you want," Bucky muttered dryly, eliciting a scoff from Sam.    


"Well, not for me," came his irritated reply, the tone of his voice throwing Bucky off briefly. His eyes met Sam's, and he could see that the other man wasn't expressing annoyance with him. It was comforting to know. His gaze lingered on Sam a bit too long, though. 

"So?" Bucky asked finally, his voice too jarring in the silence that had built up in the room. He softened his tone as he continued, "You make any demands, Cap?" 

"I did," Sam replied quickly, with the sort of tone that suggested that it was all he was going to say. At Bucky’s insistent gaze, Sam added, "Well, for starters, I'm allowed to kind of have a say with who I work with."

As if out of habit, Bucky kicked himself off of his position at the wall, bringing himself to join Sam at the couch. "Kind of?" He said slowly, urging Sam to say what Bucky was hypothesizing.   
"Well, there are limits," Sam amended.

"What kinds of limits?" Bucky pushed again, and the long suffering look that Sam gave him should not have made his stomach flutter.   


"You're the limit, I think,” Sam spelled out softly, before going quiet. He was expecting Bucky to throw a fit about that, was the conclusion Bucky came to. 

"Am I allowed to feel proud about that?" Bucky said, hoping that the joke came across. Whether or not it did, Sam still laughed, and he appreciated that. 

"I definitely would." Too soon, the silence flooded in after Sam's words, but this time, Bucky didn't have much to say. Luckily, the other man sensed Bucky's hesitation, although he mistook it for something else. "You know you don't have to-"

"Don't waste your breath. You know I will help you, no matter what," Bucky added, much more softly, before continuing, "A life of peace isn't in the cards for me. Even if I tried at it. I may as well go after the guys who could cause my life hell and make theirs hell first." He leaned back into the couch cushions, his body still tense. Breathing in deeply, he forced his shoulders to release whatever tension they had been holding. Even so, it didn't do much. 

"I'd help you," Sam said suddenly, his eyes piercing as he stared at Bucky, turned fully to face him. "To disappear, if you wanted to," he continued to explain hurriedly, as if he was worried that Bucky had misunderstood him.    


"I don't want to, Sam." It was a simple statement; there wasn't much else for Bucky to say that adequately described what he was thinking. "What other demands?"

"I don't have to stay in DC." It was like an exhale, the way he said it. Bucky didn't miss the way that Sam's eyes flicked to Bucky’s bag when he was speaking, too.    


"Oh," Bucky said, which wasn't a good answer at all. Sam was looking at him expectantly, with such open and earnest eyes that Bucky felt like kissing him or punching him. "So where are you going?" He murmured, and maybe he moved a bit closer to Sam. If the other man noticed the subtle movement, he didn't show it, looking only at Bucky with those wide trusting eyes.    


"Probably back to New York. A lot of the officials live there actually, and given that I have my suit and access to quinjets, it's not too much of a struggle." His voice sounded like a shrug, it oozed nonchalance in a way that screamed practiced force. 

"I see," Bucky replied casually, matching Sam’s tone. He turned slightly, supporting his with a metal fist on his temple, his left elbow resting on the top of the cushion. Once again, Sam's eyes glanced at Bucky’s bag in a movement that would have been too quick for anyone to notice. Anyone, but not Bucky. 

"You're not staying here either?" Sam asked hesitantly, _finally_ , and Bucky answered quickly, the answer having been on his lips since the beginning of the conversation.   
"Well, I'm not planning on it, but that doesn't mean I necessarily have a plan on where I'm going."

Sam's response was just as quick, but much more confusing, at least for Bucky. "Move in with me. In New York. That's your home, right?" The last sentence was thrown in there, almost like it was damage control, put there to soothe whatever harm the previous words may have accidentally caused. Luckily for Sam, no harm was done. Unfortunately for Bucky, his heart was racing at a speed that may, in fact, cause some hurt. 

"Trying to get me to live with you before our first date, Mr. Wilson?" He joked, choosing it as an alternate option to possibly professing his love. "That's very forward of you."   


"Don't worry, I'll also take you on a date," Sam followed up. 

Well, Bucky's earlier problem of his pulse going too fast was fixed, because now it felt like his heart had stopped. Sam kept his gaze trained on Bucky, and he tried to do the same. Whether it was a blessing or a curse, it allowed him to see the vulnerability in the other man's gaze, the deep pool of insecurity mixed with a little bit of fear. Bucky understood; it was the same combination that was festering in his head right now. Regulating his breathing to an extent that should have been concerning, he measured out his following words. "I can't tell whether you're joking or not."

"I'm not joking, except it's more of a question than the statement that I said it as, I guess," Sam replied back softly, sitting up a bit straighter and turning his knees so that they faced Bucky as much as possible. Sam's hand snuck forward an inch on the cushion, in a move that should have been unnoticeable, had Bucky not been so focused on every motion that Sam made. "I never pushed you away because I  _ didn't  _ like you, if you haven't figured that out."

"I see."

"And I do like you,” Sam added, his voice almost shy, and it did things to Bucky's head, making it all foggy and hard to think. It didn't feel like they were two soldiers destined to fight wars for the rest of their life; it was more like they were children out at recess, confessing their love to each other on the playground. 

"You already know how I feel about you," Bucky murmured gently, his insecurity rising up into his throat again, threatening to choke him. He let his tongue run across his bottom lip, feeling the dryness there. He was scared; that much was obvious. "I don't want to mess anything up." And that was his biggest fear, fucking up one of the only real connections he had in this time. The Howling Commandos were dead. Steve was basically almost there as well. 

"You won't," Sam said automatically, cutting off Bucky's train of thought before it went further. "No matter what, I'll always be there for you." 

"I know you will," Bucky said, and he believed it, surprisingly. Detangling his metal fingers from his own hair, which they had rested in out of pure anxiety, he moved his hand to rest briefly over Sam's on the cushion, before pulling back slightly. Sam's hand darted forward, as if on instinct, to cover Bucky’s partially, and true warmth burst in Bucky's stomach. A smile played on his face as he spoke, "Can I just say that might have been the least dramatic way to ask me out?"   


Sam sighed, but he was smiling too, and while he retracted slightly out of mock hurt, his fingers were still resting against Bucky's. "Jesus, Bucky, give me a break.”

“‘Fraid I can't do that,” Bucky shot back, and it sort of hurt, smiling as hard as he was. A giddy feeling flooded his throat, and he did feel  _ normal _ , for once, as if he was planning a high school date. He patted Sam's hand, continuing, “So, where are we moving to? Not the safehouse, I imagine?”   


Sam's smile was so bright that Bucky thought he might go blind looking at him. He wasn't going to look away, though. “The city. An apartment, but not one that looks like…” Sam gestured to Bucky’s apartment, quickly returning his stare to Bucky to check whether he offended him. 

“Great. I'm already sold,” Bucky said. A mew sounded nearby, followed by fur rubbing against Bucky’s leg. Sam's eyes showed nothing but warmth when he looked down at the cat, and damn him for making Bucky fall for him even more. 

“Oh hey, I was wondering where Alpine was,” Sam murmured, reaching down to pet her. Alpine stretched up her head to meet Sam's fingers as he stroked in between her ears.   


“You got a cat-friendly apartment, right?” Bucky said, only half-joking as he tilted his head in a move that was too much like something Alpine would do. Sam only laughed as the cat slunk off to another corner of the tiny apartment. 

“Something tells me that even if pets weren't allowed, you'd bring her,” Sam replied, and Bucky tilted his head back to laugh. It felt good, the unrestricted display of happiness, and the best part was that Sam reciprocated it. 

“Damn right,” he chuckled, looking back up at Sam. Bucky hoped that Sam could read his eyes, see everything he wasn't telling him, see how much he meant to Bucky. He wanted Sam to know everything that Bucky struggled to say out loud. Bucky liked to think he was getting bolder, but when he opened his mouth, the only thing that came out was, “When are we leaving?”

\- - - - -

Letting Bucky drive was the best decision Sam had made in the past few days. Not only did Sam not have to focus on the road, sitting in the passenger's seat also allowed him to focus only on Bucky. 

Even though, when they had first met, Sam had wanted to think that Bucky's face was enhanced by the serum, he was now sure that the man was just born with that level of beauty. Sam was able to stare unabashedly at Bucky's face, as his right arm was down to give the shoulder that had been shot a break as his metal fingers curled around the steering wheel. His nose had a faint bump, just slightly below eye level, which sloped down to join with the smooth bridge that was the rest of his nose. The tip of his nose was rounded but still somewhat pointed: perfect. And his eyes had to be the most stunning view on the face of the planet, and maybe some other planets, too. 

Those eyes were currently looking at Sam.

“What are you thinking ‘bout?” Bucky murmured gently, his hair moving slightly due to the partially opened window. The strands stroked his cheeks like a lover, and if it was possible to be envious of hair, Sam definitely was. 

“What do you think I'm thinking about?” Sam shot back, his cheeks immediately flaring with unbearable heat at Bucky’s lazy grin. He almost slapped the man’s arm, before remembering the shoulder injury. Instead, he decided to sulk, jutting out his lower lip. “No, Bucky, just- I wouldn't do that!” 

Bucky's eyes darted down to Sam's lips for a moment, and that was definitely interesting. It made Sam feel warm again, even when he shivered. “Okay, Sam, I believe you,” Bucky said slowly, the tone of a man who was about to say something else. Sam didn't linger on the thought, as pleasing as it was, for too long, as his phone buzzed in the front pocket of his jeans. He checked it, seeing a familiar contact name attached to a text and swiping. “Something up?” Bucky asked, slightly turning his face back to the road so that they didn't crash. Even so, it still felt like most of his attention was on Sam.    


“It's my sister, Sarah,” he answered, the clicking noises of his typing an obvious sign of a long reply. “Wants to know if I'm coming back up to New York. To see me.” 

“That's sweet,” Bucky replied absentmindedly, his left hand curling tighter around the wheel for a brief second. Sam clocked the movement instantly, darting to map out the lines in Bucky's face, searching for new creases. 

“She wants to meet you,” he broached hesitantly. 

“Oh, I'm meeting the family already?” Bucky smiled slightly, but Sam spotted the telltale crease by his lip instantly, the one that gave away what smiles Bucky was forcing. “I gotta say, Sam, you are really rushing this.” 

“Shut up,” he said back, out of pure instinct, and then it clicked. The reason for the other man’s attitude. “Bucky?”

“Yes?”

“Are you ever going to see your sister?” Sam asked softly, and it was as if those were magic words. Bucky exhaled, and it showed so obviously on his face, some of the creases making way for smooth skin. In an action that would have seemed lazy had it not been Bucky doing it, he let his face tilt to the side against the headrest of the seat, as if it was the only thing keeping his head from falling over. 

“I'll regret it if I don't, right?” Bucky muttered, his eyes meeting Sam's briefly before pushing himself back into a regular driving position. Sam let his left hand drift over Bucky's flesh arm for a moment.    


“Right.”

Bucky let out another sigh, bright eyes fixated on the road. “I'm not sure, Sam,” he admitted quietly, and Sam understood. He always did. 

“That's okay.” This time, he let his hand rest on top of Bucky's, slowly moving his thumb over the top of the man’s hand. Satisfaction and happiness frolicked in the meadow of his head when he saw a soft smile play on Bucky's lips, the rest of the stress lines of his face soothing drastically. 

“Sam,” he said, rolling out the one syllable like it was made to be on his lips. Sam couldn't ignore the thrill that it sent up his back, to hear Bucky casually say his name. And it was casual, there was no other word; there was no intent behind it, other than just being a word that was said. 

“Bucky,” Sam replied back, leaning further into his seat as he watched the trees on Bucky’s side of the road. The sun danced in between each trunk, flashing through to momentarily blind Sam, but the orange glow that shone when the sun was partially hidden was worth it. 

“What's your middle name?” Bucky asked, and his eyes were squinted slightly, the light taking a toll on him as well. Sam didn't want to potentially bring up the idea of sunglasses, didn't want to miss the way that the sun bounced off of his blue eyes. 

“Thomas,” he responded when his mind finally caught up to the question he was asked. The other man looked pleasantly amused. If Sam didn't know any better, he would think that Bucky knew the effect he had on Sam. 

“Samuel Thomas Wilson,” Bucky said as a reply, looking over at Sam to silently check whether Samuel was, in fact, his first name. It was, but Sam’s vacant face due to his brain short-circuiting was clearly no help. His name had never struck anyone as anything other than ordinary; Bucky said it like a prayer, like it was the only thing that he had ever said. 

“Yes.” The one word sounded like a sigh off Sam’s lips, and he wasn't sure what he was referring to. He didn't have time to be embarrassed, Bucky's half-tilted smile letting him know that he was in for another snappy comeback.

“Let me plan the date?” Bucky asked sweetly, and Sam froze. The smirk grew into a bigger smile, a genuine one, and Sam was really having a hard time picking his jaw off the floor. Sam used to joke with Steve about how there was no way Bucky could have been “all that” in the 40s, but now, he felt like he owed Steve some money. 

“Should I be afraid?” Sam said finally, and the glowing smile in response felt like more than Sam, than anyone, actually, deserved. 

“No, definitely not,” Bucky murmured, and Sam turned away so Bucky couldn't catch the way his face was glowing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....so, I'm planning for the last chapter to be the next chapter. I'm really excited because this would be the first chapter-fanfic that I actually finish! I'm still going to continue it as a series, with a bunch of cute one-shots from this specific universe, if that makes sense. So... stick around! I appreciate all of your support :)


	14. they think i'm insane (they think my lover is strange)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Of course,” Bucky responded, swiping his thumb again over Sam's hand. A mischievous smile pulled up the corner of the man's mouth. “I guess we should get to know each other better.”  
>  “Between the weirdly revealing arguments and battles we've fought against other people, I feel like I have a pretty good scope of who you are,” Sam shot back snarkily, earning a full grin from Bucky that made his insides turn to mush again. “But I'm an open book, so fire away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Halsey's "Strange Love"

Sam didn't know where to look anymore.

Bucky had told him that they were going out to coffee, to which Sam had jokingly replied with, "You're right up there with some of the most recognizable people in the world, with that look you got going on," followed by a vague gesture to Bucky's entire face. The smirk that the other man had given Sam as a response made Sam almost want to just skip the date and move onto the other perks of being in a relationship. 

He didn't think that comment would result in Bucky  _ cutting his hair. _ But there he was, sitting across from Sam in a coffee shop that had just the right amount of people in it. Bucky's eyes were bright as his right hand went to brush away the hair that was no longer there out of pure habit.It wasn't cut as short as his military haircut back in the 40's, that was for sure. If Bucky's hair wasn't slightly slicked back, Sam was sure that his hair would be close to chin length. 

Sam had opted for a baseball cap, and had urged Bucky to do the same. Caution winning over, the other man had brought a hat, just in case, but it was definitely not needed, judging by the amount of people who had flirted with him in and out of the café without even batting an eye. Even Sam partially conceded that it wasn't necessary; he was sure that Bucky could stare right at Secretary Ross and get no response whatsoever. 

Bucky wasn't staring at any other man, though. When Sam finally returned to the present, he found himself gazing into the bright blue eyes opposite to him. 

"Hi," Bucky whispered softly, and Sam felt his insides melting. 

"Hello," he said back, internally cursing himself for being so dry. It didn't seem to matter much to Bucky, if the bright smile that flashed across his face was anything to go by. 

"So," the other man said, flexing his gloved left hand. Luckily, it was cold outside, so no one batted an eye at the sheer amount of cold gear that Bucky was wearing. "This is my first date in roughly eight decades." 

Sam tipped back his head and laughed, attracting a few onlookers momentarily. Bucky's gaze never wavered, the fact of it making Sam's cheeks warm as he returned his stare once more. “I guess it is.”

Slowly and carefully, Bucky moved his right hand onto the table in a movement so deliberate, it was obvious he was trying to make sure that Sam saw him. Slowly, he placed his hand over Sam's on the table, leather of the gloves against skin. Bucky's hands were gentle in a way that Sam hadn't had the pleasure of experiencing for a long time. Looking up, Bucky murmured, “What's on your mind?”   


Sam let out a sigh, browsing his mind for any other topic, before deciding to come clear. “I'm thinking about how this is going to work.” With the hand that wasn't currently under Bucky's, he gestured to the two of them vaguely. “With my job,” he added, swallowing down the thick bile that was threatening to rise. 

He wanted to explain more, to say that it wasn't the two of them that would raise problems; at least, that wasn't the  _ entirety  _ of the problem. When Sam looked at Bucky’s face, though, he could have cried from the amount of understanding that he saw etched in the lines of the other man's handsome face. It wasn't that there was a possibility of a relationship with Bucky; it was that there was a possibility of a relationship with a  _ man. _ “With you being a public figure and all?” Bucky asked softly, and Sam found himself nodding. 

“Yeah,” Sam answered quietly. Even though he had settled into the comfortable atmosphere of the café they were in, he knew how fragile peace was. “I don't know what I'd do if they took the shield away from me  _ again  _ and I had to prove myself  _ again _ .”

“They won't,” Bucky stated firmly. His thumb rubbed over the back of Sam's hand, and Sam wondered whether Bucky even knew he was doing it. He was not going to point it out, though, fearing the other man would stop. “They  _ can't, _ ” Bucky said again, conviction clear in his tone. Sam's other hand came up to squeeze the back of Bucky’s hand. 

“Can we talk about something else?” He pleaded, and Bucky's eyes softened immediately. 

“Of course,” Bucky responded, swiping his thumb again over Sam's hand. A mischievous smile pulled up the corner of the man's mouth. “I guess we should get to know each other better.”   


“Between the weirdly revealing arguments and battles we've fought against other people, I feel like I have a pretty good scope of who you are,” Sam shot back snarkily, earning a full grin from Bucky that made his insides turn to mush again. “But I'm an open book, so fire away.”

Bucky leaned back in his seat slightly, a movement that forced him to slide his hand away from Sam so that only their fingers touched. In response to this, Sam scooted his chair forward a bit so that he could tangle his fingers with Bucky's. Bucky's eyes glanced down to look at where their hands were resting, and a more permanent, albeit small, smile graced his face. 

“What…” Bucky trailed off, bringing his gaze to the window looking onto the busy street. His eyebrows furrowed, deep in thought, before he turned back to continue, “What do you look for in a relationship?”

This brought out another laugh from Sam, and if he wasn't mistaken, he was sure that he could see a hint of pride in Bucky’s expression, for making Sam happy again. “When did you have time to look up date icebreakers?” 

Bucky shrugged. “I may have checked some things before we left,” he replied slyly, before adding, a tad more seriously, “But the question is no less genuine.” 

“It is a good question,” Sam said, curling his other hand in a fist to prop up his chin. “Let me think.”

Outside, the cars drove past, honking their horns at each other and pedestrians and basically anything. It reminded Sam of a time of bad news, but he didn't want to think about that. He squeezed Bucky’s hand, and received a squeeze back. It was as if Bucky knew what he needed, without having to be told what was racing through Sam's mind. And there was the answer to the question.

“Security,” Sam whispered back, not needing to repeat it even with the low volume it was said at; he knew Bucky had picked up on it. “I need to know that someone will always be there for me, and will know what to do, and… yeah. Security. That's my answer.”

Bucky hummed, a low sound in the back of his throat, as he curled his hand into Sam's. Their hands fit together perfectly and comfortably, even with Bucky’s gloves in the way. Sam was hit with the intense longing to feel the metal of his hand. “That's a good answer,” Bucky said slowly, resuming his action of brushing his thumb over Sam's hand. 

Sam had to stop getting so distracted. “What about you?”

“I guess it's the same but that'd be a boring answer, repeating what you said,” Bucky muttered, his hand tapped against the table. The pace of his tapping slowed as he found his answer. “Understanding,” Bucky said, “I need someone who understands, but doesn't sympathize. Doesn't pity me, I mean.” 

“That's important, definitely,” Sam said, distantly. He loved talking with Bucky, obviously, but he liked to think that there were deeper questions he could ask. “What's your favorite part about the twenty-first century?” was the question that Sam settled with, and by the responding flash of teeth, he could tell it was a good question. 

When Sam didn't get a reply immediately, he turned his head slightly to once again meet Bucky's gaze. The softness of the man’s expression was overwhelming, to say that least; Sam was simultaneously struck with the urge to look away and the urge to never gaze at anything that wasn't Bucky. With a gentleness that could rival anyone, the hand curled around Sam's lifted up, bringing Sam's palm close to Bucky's cheek. Slowly, his eyes never leaving Sam's, he leaned his face against their intertwined hands. 

Sam stopped breathing momentarily.    


“This,” Bucky stated simply, the perfect answer to his question. And Sam understood so clearly, just after one word.

“You know it's not all perfect, still,” Sam murmured, not making any attempt to take his hand back. He didn't want to. “People like us still getting killed. People like me, especially.”

“That's true,” Bucky replied back, steadily, still holding Sam's hand against his face. “But I'm a selfish man. And I get to be here, with you, holding you like this out here.” His lips twitched into a sadder smile. “Is that wrong of me?”

“No,” Sam said immediately, vehemently. He clutched Bucky's hand tighter. “You're allowed to be selfish.”

“That doesn't mean I won't still stand up for people like us, Sam,” Bucky added, running his tongue over his bottom lip. Sam could feel the movement through Bucky's cheek to his hand. “I'm not that selfish.”

“I never thought you were, Buck.” And it was true, too; he had done enough fighting, so Sam didn't see why he couldn't enjoy life, just a little. It was only then that Sam really registered what Bucky had said, and curiosity, mixed with a mild bit of concern, overtook his mind. “Would you ever come out?” Sam asked bluntly, regretting his question immediately. 

Bucky didn't seem to have any problems with it, even though he still sought clarification. “I'm not really in your position, so I don't know what you mean.”

“You are kind of becoming a public figure,” Sam phrased carefully, “You haven't really been as stealthy as you think, when it comes to helping me with business.” 

“I guess,” Bucky said back. Anxiety coursed through Sam's body, his only comfort being that Bucky hadn't let go of his hand. “Do you want me to come out?”

Sam didn't think he had ever denied something harder in his life. “God, no, Bucky, please do not ever come out because you think someone else wants you to. I was just…” He didn't finish his sentence, grasping for words that were just out of his reach. “Because you mentioned wanting to help people like us. It was a very bad assumption for me to make.” Words were failing him.

“Hey,” Bucky said softly, his voice dropping into a lower register; he was trying to sound more soothing, Sam realized. “I know it's not what you meant. And I know what you're trying to say.”

Bucky leaned back again, placing Sam's hand back onto the table, still clasping it. “I would come out,” Bucky mused, and Sam froze, his assumption that the conversation was over dying slowly. “But I gotta get people to forgive me first, before I spring another thing on ‘em.” He made another sad smile that Sam really didn't want to see. “Life might be better, but something tells me that being queer will be put right up there with me being a murderer.” 

“You're not a murderer,” was Sam's immediate response, purely out of habit. Bucky didn't respond to it, not willing to invoke the same old conversation; instead, he asked another question.

“Would you?” Bucky inquired, tilting his head in a comically cute fashion. At Sam's blank stare, he clarified, “Would you come out?”

And wasn’t that the million dollar question. His entire body straightened, tensed, and the squeeze that Bucky gave his hand was proof that his conflict was obvious. “I would,” Sam finally said, “But not now.” 

Bucky was silent, and Sam wondered what he had said, in the small amount of words he had spoken, that was wrong. He didn't have to stew in his nervousness for long, as Bucky huffed out a laugh,  _ finally. _ “I'm really bad at having conversations that aren't around serious topics, apparently.” 

Any tension left in his body evaporated as he laughed along with Bucky. “That makes two of us,” Sam chuckled. 

Blissful silence settled over the two of them, their hands intertwined comfortably between them. The atmosphere of the shop felt warm, even with the low temperature outside and the promise of snow in the air. Sitting there with Bucky, without a care in the world (or at least, they were trying not to care), Sam felt the most amount of normalcy he had experienced since running into Steve in DC. He let his eyes wander around, comforted by Bucky’s steadfast presence. Security was what Sam wanted. And he had it. Around them, the chatter of people exchanging small talk was no distraction; it was like birdsong on a walk through a park. 

“Have you ever visited Central Park?” Sam asked, before adding, “It was built after your time.” 

“I don't know,” Bucky answered honestly, “Not as me, I know that for a fact.” 

It was times like this that Sam wished he could revive parts of Hydra so that he could kill them all again. But that was a digression from the question on Sam's mind. 

“Do you want to go to the park?”

\- - - - -

Even though Bucky didn’t have any memory of Central Park, he knew it was pure luck that caused most of the place to be empty. There were obviously still people milling about; it would have been odd if there weren't any. Even so, there was just the right amount of people, allowing for Bucky to hold Sam's hand while walking through the trees.

Bucky had always been a touchy person, before his years as the Winter Soldier. He figured it would have changed after he came back, and in most ways, it had. With most people, he wouldn't even let them come close enough to touch him. Sam was different, though. The man was magnetic, and Bucky was drawn to him in a way that shouldn't have made sense while also being completely reasonable. 

They walked among the trees, the light that filtered through the leaves making pretty patterns on the path. As they walked, conversation flowed like water downhill, laughter becoming just as easy as their talking progressed. At some points, Bucky wasn't even sure what he was saying, his words only serving as a method of getting Sam to talk more so that he could listen to his voice. 

In a particular part of the park, there were even less people. A few trees provided shade to big gray stones lying on the grass. It was there that Sam and Bucky finally sat down, deeming any of the wooden benches they had passed unworthy. Perched on the rocks, Bucky stared up at the sky, an icy blue color that hurt to look at. 

“Hey,” Sam said softly, in a tone of voice that never failed to make Bucky's heart skip a beat. In fact, it was a good thing that it was cold out, because it provided another reason for Bucky's face to be red during the entirety of the day. “How was it?”

“Hm?” Bucky said as a reply; his tongue must have been frozen as it was the only viable explanation. Sam laughed fondly. 

“How was your first date of this century?” Sam murmured, squeezing his hand for the millionth time. Even so, Bucky would never get tired of it. 

“It was decent,” Bucky drawled, and Sam let go of his hand to shove him to the side. Bucky was laughing as he immediately bounced back to his posture, quickly enough to see Sam wave his hand around as if hitting the metal arm had done more hurt to him than Bucky. Once they both regained their composure, he spoke again, sincerely, “Amazing. It was amazing. You're amazing.” 

Sam swatted Bucky, this time making sure to hit the fleshy part of his side instead of his left arm. Bucky could tell it was a calculated move, based on Sam's small hesitation before striking. “You dumbass,” Sam chided, “We didn't do anything very extraordinary, you don't have to make me feel better.” 

Bucky ducked his head shyly. He wasn't sure what was going on that made him feel like he was back in the past, in high school trying to kiss a girl out during recess, but he hoped he didn't make an utter fool out of himself. 

“Sam, I'm being completely honest,” Bucky tried again, pitching his voice low like he did when he was serious. “This was the best date I've had, ever.” After a few more seconds, with a little more laughter in his tone he added, “Maybe it's just the previously brainwashed assassin talking, but…”

“I get it,” Sam murmured, moving his hand over Bucky's. Bucky sat like that, Sam's hand over his, for a few seconds, basking in the cold of the park and the warmth of the moment. Both of their faces stayed blank, content, until Sam's eyebrow quirked up in response to the coy smile threatening to erupt on Bucky's face. 

“I'm sure it could get better, though,” Bucky whispering slyly, turning his hand so that it was palm up, curling his fingers around Sam's hand. Sam leaned forward slightly; there already wasn’t much space between the two of them, but now Bucky felt like he was breathing the same breaths as Sam. The other man's mouth curled into a smile not so different from the one on Bucky’s face.

“Already trying to get into bed with me, Barnes?” Sam replied back slowly. Bucky didn't want to think too much about the fact that Sam didn't sound completely closed off to the idea. One might have even thought he sounded interested, but there was no time to unpack that. “I guess the rumors ‘bout you in the 40's are true," continued Sam, and Bucky let out a low chuckle.

“I don't really have time to debate the past,” Bucky drawled, his voice dipping into his lowest register, almost a rasp. He mentally rid himself of the wall of charm and appeal that he was slowly putting up. With his tone following the emotions he was really feeling, he asked quietly, "Do you mind if I kiss you?"

Sam's lips parted, his breaths coming out more shallow; Bucky would know, obviously, seeing as they were only about an inch away from each other. The other man's tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Bucky mapped the movement with his gaze. "Yeah," came Sam's hoarse reply, as if his throat had gone completely dry. "Yes, you can kiss me," he repeated, more sure this time, although he didn't move to bridge the gap between them.

It was then that Bucky understood, and he could have cried. Bucky had been handed the reins of the relationship, at least for now. And he would take them, gladly, for now as well. He reached forward to cup the back of Sam's neck with his flesh hand, still gloved, fingers splayed over the back of the other man's head. Ever so slowly, he dipped his head down. 

His lips met Sam's, and his heart melted even further. Bucky refused to cry; there was a limit to how much embarrassment he could take. Still, the softness of the action, the gentleness of Sam's lips against his, after decades of nothing but harshness inflicted, was a shock to him. His other hand came up to cup the side of Sam's face as he kissed him deeper, Sam's hand finding their home around Bucky’s waist. 

Habit took over, and Bucky's tongue started to push, before he drew back. There would be time, later. He didn't want to kiss like he was running out of time. He wanted to kiss like he'd have another century left of his life. 

So he pulled back, but only slightly. For a few seconds, Sam and Bucky shared breaths, close enough that one movement and their lips would be back on each other again. The sharp exhale of air that Bucky felt on his lips was accompanied by the sound of a quick laugh.

“How the fuck do you still know how to kiss after eighty years?” Sam said quietly, a little too breathless for it to be a complete joke. Bucky laughed into another kiss, much quicker than the last, but no less satisfying. 

“Was kind of hoping that you'd tell me I need some more practice or something,” Bucky murmured, brushing his lips against Sam again. He was convinced he was drunk off the feeling, and had to pull himself away once more. Time. He had all the time in the world. 

“Jesus Christ, man,” Sam huffed, and Bucky could have preened at how flustered he was making the other man. “Warn a guy before you pull out the smooth shit.”

Bucky chuckled again, the feeling of laughter becoming more and more normal to him, every second he spent with Sam. “Next time, I will,” Bucky promised sweetly, accentuating his statement with a peck on the lips. 

“Next time?” Sam murmured, staring into Bucky's eyes with a look that threatened to pull tears from Bucky yet again. Forgoing a proper answer, Bucky cupped Sam's face again and brought them together for another kiss.

_ Next time, and the time after that, and the time after that,  _ Bucky promised in his head before he lost himself in the moment.  _ I promise. The passage of time will not hold sway over us anymore.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....y'all  
> Thank you so much for all the support I have received! As you can see, this fic is part of a series, so I am planning on writing some one-shots and some more chapter fics (tho definitely not ones that are 50k) that are in the realm of this headcanon. Anyway... I love you all so much andddd I hope you appreciate this chapter because I struggled. Thank you.


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